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Norman of Limbo

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Jacquelyn15
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Norman of Limbo

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My name is Rev. Jacquelyn Cuyler, and my husband and I own a holistic company and both are self-published authors. I do all of the marketing for our company, and so I will be posting the information about his, as well as my books.
Norman of Limbo by Rob Wright available on Amazon, Kindle, Nook and you can purchase your hard copy here: http://purepath.wix.com/path#!books/ca19

Excerpt:

When my head hit the pillow, after a day of miracles, my eyelids quickly dropped, and I found myself remembering the most vivid dream upon awaking in the morning. If you’re lucky, there will be a handful of dreams that stick with you throughout life. Whether it is scary, a paradise fantasy, or seemingly typical but for one quirky happening, that dream swirls around your head for all of your days. This was one of mine.

I found myself watching a bird pecking at the ground. In my head, I wondered if it was looking for a worm, but as soon as the thought came, the little blackbird turned its head and whimsically said, “I’m just pecking to peck.” So, I just continued watching without another question why.

Soon, the bird flew, and I peculiarly felt offended she did not say goodbye. Laughing the notion away, I looked around to find something else to observe. I became aware that my surroundings were brilliant in color. High definition television would not compete with it. Trees of enormous strength and splendor jutted high and outward into the sky; they honorably canopied all the flourishing foliage beneath. The wise trees knew to keep just the right amount of space for letting in bursts of golden sunlight. Each ray trickled down the leaves of the highest trees, bursting with light as it freefell from one leaf to another, finally brushing my chin before reaching its final destination, the earth.

I saw a path I assumed led out of the forest and began walking, taking note of all of the animals and birds that let me catch a glimpse. The path soon led to a clearing containing only one thing—a gigantic tree, with fully bloomed flowers. At a distance, those flowers looked like spinning wheels of rich light and color. Their scent filled my nose as I walked closer. The colors would change, each of them a different color; no two the same, swapping colors with one another. Trying on a hue to see how it feels, I thought. Then trying another and another…

Sitting beneath the tree, I imagined a cigarette, and a glass of red wine, and they instantly appeared in my hand. I leaned against the tree and crossed my ankles, legs stretched out in front of me, for what seemed a mile. A book appeared in my lap—something I did not envision into manifestation. The cover was torn, but after reading the first paragraph, I realized it was one of mine, an early one. In fact, I could not recall the name or much of the plot. It had been one of a string of books that I cared little about after finishing, and even less while writing. I cared more when finished, solely because it meant a paycheck.

So, I read and read, finding myself laughing at parts, saddened from time to time, and even coming to a realization or two. This was far more than I expected from a book I had written, so I tossed it down, and realized I was dreaming. When I realize that I’m dreaming, typically it is over a few seconds later. I said a quick goodbye to the tree and the animals and waited, arms outstretched as if I were to be beamed up just before my eyes open in bed. Instead, this time I stayed, awkwardly holding my arms out like an imbecile waiting for a UFO to scoop me up. I turned back to the tree, figuring to sit a while longer, only to find a blonde haired little boy, about eight years old, lounging under the tree wearing Superman pajamas.

He said nothing as I approached. Turning his head to a bright green apple in his hand and taking a bite, the sound popped and sizzled in my ear. It was a charming hello, but always the cynic, I walked up cautiously. “Sit with me, Norman,” he said, grinning and wiping the apple juice and pulp from his rosy cheeks. The little cherub that he seemed to be, I sat next to him, easing into the soft grass, propped on my elbow. He sat smiling, slightly uphill but next to me. His blue eyes flickered in the sunlight as the leaves rustled with a gentle, momentary breeze. For a second, his face looked old and tired, framed by flowing white hair and a beard. Then the little boy quickly returned, and I asked who he was.
“God.” He returned to his apple.
I waited patiently for him to crack a smile.

His face changed again, returning to the white-haired, bearded old man. I saw tired, blue eyes. The same peaceful breeze passed by, pushing through the leaves, but only half the sparkle sprang from his eyes. “Long ago, Norman, I was that little boy. To put it in any term you could possibly relate to in skin,” he pinched my forearm, “it would be like opening your eyes at birth—you know it happened, but you really cannot recall that precise moment…

“All was fine, me coursing about, blissfully enveloped in a vast, loving realm of endless possibility… until the dream, the vision. There were people all around, doing all kinds of things. Talking, watching, playing, laughing, crying, buying and selling, and on and on they went about, fascinating me, for this was all alien to me.

“In the dream, even I had a mother and father and grew up with normal childish escapades and scraped knees. I marveled at the ocean and admired the sunrise, and all of the breathing and non-breathing creatures alike. I saw such exciting, beautiful things—beginnings, endings and the journeys between. I saw men of triumph and men that had been conquered as I enjoyed the splendid lessons of both.

The old man returned to the eight year old boy again. “I pondered and pondered the vision, Norman. It was my only shot at possibly finding MY origin. The vision had an origin, somewhere within a part of me I had yet to discover or create. So, I immediately set out to create what I had seen in the dream. My only theory is that I originated from the same place as the origin of the vision. It was worth a shot.” He shrugged his shoulders and bit into the apple once again.
I looked up and asked, “Did it turn out as you had dreamed?”
Old man God chuckled, “Not exactly… not yet.”
“Why?”
“Free will and what not. I wanted everything in creation to play its part and contain the same ability to dream and create as I. It had to be so. You see, the dream was not all dragons and unicorns and fairies. It wasn’t just people singing and laughing with unending peace and happiness… There were nightmarish parts! I saw bloody wars and men dominating other men. I saw women and womanhood diminished, and people being persecuted by creed and by color, or whatever other silly little thing one unhappy soul could bring forth against another. I saw scary things that go ‘bump in the night’, and monsters waiting in the shadows, hoping to devour a good and decent heart.”

“So I created all of it, the good the bad, and the ugly as you might say. One of the most beautiful lessons I learned in the vision was this: Once, I returned to the more utopian aspect of creation and was able to remember that joy and uninhibited existence, I appreciated it far more.”
“So there is a scary, dark dude running around out there?” I asked.

“Yup. You’ve met.” He transformed into the little boy again. “He doesn’t scare me, though. I created him too.” He winked and finished his apple. Easily reaching into the ground with a bare, child hand, he planted the core in the rich soil. “It’s time this big wondrous tree had some company. Fare thee well, little apple tree. You have a wise tree above you.”
I still focused on the devil, of course. “But why, God? Why create evil?”

“It was part of the dream! To find realization, Norman, one cannot just throw away the parts that are uncomfortable. The truth will allow those parts to fade into the all-encompassing bliss that is. If you choose light, it will always drown out the darkness—problem solved; the problem is no longer visible on any level.” The boy leapt to his feet and began twirling, followed by some kind of jig. “That darkness still serves a purpose whether it wishes to or not. A silly, silly thing in the end really, don’t you think?”
“What’s silly?” I created an apple of my own to eat.

“The notion that one could choose not to participate in the dream… Whether you do or do not, fly or fall, it won’t change the outcome in the end, either way. So quit trying to do good to make up for the bad. Just move forward and do… simply just to do.”
“What about the Christ’s and Buddha’s, gurus, and shamans, teaching and living that enlightenment? Surely they have found it!”

“Yes, there have been those that have been lucky enough to find and express me fully, tucked deep within them. And if they have found me, then I too have found them, and thus it is such a majestic convergence! This unending circle is all I know. It is all that exists, ever changing, ever sustaining, regardless of personal perception. My perception, though it is remarkably vast, is also expanding… New dreams and new visions from my heart appear and evolve.” He changed back into the old man just as I became too focused on the fact it seemed strange, such words pouring from the lips of a child, words from the enchanted inkwell of the ultimate author.

He went on, “But… what is God’s origin?” He sat reflectively for a moment, lit a freshly created cigarette, and watched the twirling smoke rise up into the clouds. Suddenly I had found such common ground with the creator—the way he watched the smoke twist and soar, and the inner drive to ask why and yearn to see what unfolds. He reflected the parts I loved of myself and all the things I’d dreamt to be as an old man or imagined how I was as a child. If I had not known he was God in the dream, I would have just found him to be a wise old man, who never forgot the magic of life.

“I created scientists and doctors, dreamers and poets. I’ve commissioned kings, queens, shamans, priests, and rabbis. I sent out sinners, saints, saviors, and rebels to all corners of the universe…” He put out his cigarette and the butt turned into a ladybug. He watched it stroll down his forefinger, smiling. “Go be a ladybug,” he whispered and blew it into the breeze where it caught flight and went about its ladybug day.

He looked me in the eye and cleared his throat. “Alas, we have never quite put it all together, and so I still wait, eons and eons later—waiting and watching for that moment we all come together and find me. Then perhaps, I shall finally remember all that was before Me. If all of you can remember, then so will I.” God smiled warmly and passed me a turkey sandwich on wheat. “You don’t have a problem with gluten do you?” he joked, and we laughed together, under the strongest, wisest oak tree in the universe, according to the little boy-God.

The old man-God said, gently to me yet urging me, “Remember, Norman Goodman… Just remember. And one day we will all go home together and see what came first, the chicken or the egg.” He bounced his eyebrows and rose to his feet. “Who knows… maybe it’s you.”
“Me?” I stepped back. “Me what?”
“Yup. Maybe you came first. Who knows?”
I scratched my head. “But then who came before me?”
“Exactly! Tag, you’re it…” He grinned and punched me on the shoulder before shrinking back into that golden haired, eight year old child.
And God ran into the forest to run and play as my eyes were pried open by the morning sun.
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