Wednesday, 26 May 2010



Saturday, 22 May 2010

God in Hiding

My name is Nige. I am God in hiding .

I prefer to sit alone on trains and buses because I have a need for personal space. My ego tells me that it’s all about personal space, but I am starting to think it might be more to do with personal hell. Plenty of room for me and my recycled rattan granny bag with all its assorted paraphernalia. Things to keep me busy during the journey so that I don’t have to face myself. The entire seat ends up looking like a jumble sale, and includes A battered copy of  Reappearance of the looniverse, 200 blank sheets of paper (just in case I have a sudden burst of creativity,) 10 pens (just in case one runs out.) A days supply of healthy food in air tight tubs, a 2 litre bottle of water (to help prevent dehydration,) hand crème (to help prevent dryness, )Vaseline (for chapped lips,) a phone (just in case of emergencies,) and last but not least an MP3 player with headphones, (so that I don’t have to listen to people talking shite) These things supposedly give me a sense of safety and belonging. I have since discovered that if I play music whilst eating, reading and texting at the same time I can keep all the senses busy, and don’t have to worry about having to face any inner demons.(at least until the train comes to a halt at the station.)

The girl adjacent has her feet up on the seat and I can see dog muck on the soles of her trainers.
She is cramming fast food in her mouth from a big brown paper bag. It doesn’t’t seem to matter what type of fast food the person is eating, it always smells like sweaty socks.
We haven’t even made eye contact, and I hate her.
Im busting for the bathroom and decide to seek refuge in the toilet but the door is firmly locked .

The train eventually creeps into Victoria station , and I find myself swept along in a mad rush as people dash towards the ticket barrier. I am feeling irritable and frustrated. I hate everybody and everything. The monsters in my head are so painful, that I am running scared, trying to hide in the hope that nobody sees me.

In the next breath everybody is pushing and shoving trying to board the 38 bus at the same time, without letting the other people get off first.Pregnant women and the elderly are brushed aside in favour of self preservation. I pick up a freebie newspaper from a nearby seat and head to the back of the bus. Freebie newspapers are the latest weapon in the war against connection.

 Mr ego has convinced me that a brief glimpse of some celebrity babe flashing her knickers whilst falling into a taxi under the influence of huge amounts of alcohol is going to somehow help shape me into a grounded, well informed, rounded individual. On a bad day I can read the freebie paper from front to back in the time it takes the 38 bus to get from Victoria to Piccadilly. I don’t have to speak to a soul and my separate identity bubble remains firmly intact.

As I walked through Piccadilly imitating Edvard Munch the scream, a light bulb came on in my twisted mind that made me stop dead in my tracks. I took a moment to breathe and centred myself and asked spirit for help. I remembered reading an ad in the freebie newspaper that said..

’ Don’t buy a new sofa, we’ll transform your old one at a fraction of the cost.

I then imagined that same ad to be written by Love

‘Don’t buy a new mind. Love will transform your old one at a fraction of the cost’ .

Recently at the Take me to Truth workshop I heard Tomas say that it’s a great mistake to take offence as it is to give it. So here I am taking offence at everything, avoiding everybody, feeling alone, unsupported and invalidated, and thinking the world did it to me. This is a crucial part of the undoing.
Time after time I have turned my back on the people I love, in favour of the glitz and glamour of the ego , thinking that it will give me anything I want.. Its like wading through porridge ,wearing a ball and chain and a double blindfold. Ouch!

In my experience, living without fear takes courage and willingness - its like learning to walk all over again. Our minds have become stained with dark blotches from the past, directing us to attack in the present so that the future can be more like the past.

When we find the inner strength to lay down our distorted perception of the world and make friends with our wounds, the ego ceases to have power over us. Anger and rage eventually fall by the wayside, to reveal feelings of guilt and shame and if we hang in there long enough Spirit will happily transform our thoughts and we will experience inner peace.

‘Healing cannot be accomplished in the past. It must be accomplished in the present to release the future’.

Suddenly ,the world wasn’t so intimidating anymore, because I had chosen to stop attacking it. I was experiencing the clarity and stillness that resulted from forgiveness.

A new world is being built from the inside out. Love radiates through us gently touching the hearts of everyone we meet. When you find the courage to see yourself and another in the same light, the dark edges soften and fade away to reveal the oneness that connects us all .

A friend recently wrote a beautiful poem, and I would like to share it with you ..

I seek for reassurance outward; everywhere I find
The silent screams and dreams and fears my unforgiving mind,
Until I breathe with Holy breath the Spirit’s Voice I’ll heed
Remembering that in me I have everything I need.
Correcting my perceptions I remember I am safe
With passion heart and courage too these healing steps I take.
I step into the fire of my ego’s deepest sin,
And look into the face of Christ
And know that I am Him.

'Teach only love, and learn that love is yours and you are love'

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Partial Colour Blindness; Unripe Bannanas; And A Bright Green Dog Called Courage!

I was diagnosed with Colour Vision Deficiency at an early age after Mum noticed that I had crayoned a cocker spaniel dog bright green.

Cross breeding is very popular nowadays. For example, a cross between a Pekingese and a Poodle is often referred to as a Peekapoo. Another popular cross is the Goldendoodle which is a cross between a poodle and a golden retriever.

Given the rise in deliberate cross breeding I am inclined to believe that if you cross bred a green mutated cockateel (called Buddy) with a cocker spaniel then you would get a cockagreenspaniel.

Mum decided to take me for a test to see if I was colourblind.The test was named after the man who invented it - Dr. Shinobu Ishihara, a professor at the University of Tokyo. This is what the Ishihara test looked like.

The dots are coloured in different shades and a number is hidden inside with shades of another colour. The number '74' should be clearly visible to viewers with normal color vision. Viewers with colour vision defiency may read it as '21'

Unfortunately, I could only see the number '21' which meant that I was colour deficient.

Colour Vison Deficency occurs in about 8 - 12% of males of European origin, and is a condition in which certain colours cannot be distinguished. There is no treatment for colour deficiency.

A t-shirt designer recently used the Ishihara test to help make colour sighted people more aware of this frustrating condition. However, being red/green deficient I am unable to read what it says. This is what the t-shirt looks like ..

Maybe one day I will invent a t-shirt which only colour deficient people can read and it will say 'I AM A MIRACLE'

Below is an example of  a reverse colour deficiency test. Only color deficient people like me can actually read what is written in the picture. That means, if you fail the test, you probably have the full range of color sensitivity that is attributed to color-sighted people.

There are two major types of colour blindness: those who have difficulty distinguishing between red and green, and those who have difficulty distinguishing between blue and yellow. I don't really like being called colour blind, because if I was totally colour-blind  I would live in a black and white world, and I would own a white Labrador dog called Blackie.The dog would wear a lycra costume like super dog and would sit in the front passenger seat of the car, and warn me at traffic lights; barking once for red- meaning STOP and twice for green- meaning GO!

Actually, a superdog would be pointless , because I recently discovered that  they too suffer from colour deficiency. Below is a photograph of red/green deficient dogs playing superheroes.

I sometimes  feel embarassed when people refer to me as colour blind. I prefer using the term colour deficient because this implies that I have a condition where certain colours cannot be distinguished, unlike colour blindness which implies that I cannot see colour at all.

Heres how it works; I own a coffee mug with the words FUCK IT written on the side (See left). I have learnt that certain colours are associated with objects, like grass is green, and sky is blue, and bananas are yellow. So, I see the word FUCK in the same way I see a post box, and I know that a post box is red,so therefore the word FUCK must be red too. I see the word IT in the same way I see grass that has been bleached by the sun, so the word IT is green, because I know that grass is green. You may have the same associations, but we are actually seeing the colours differently from each other.

Here are some things that bother me about living with colour deficiency:

  • When grilling a piece of meat I cannot tell whether it is raw or cooked.
  • Biting into unripe bananas - I cannot tell if they are yellow or green.
  • Cooked spinach looks like cow pat.
  • I struggle to distinguish autumn colours.
  • I can't see all the colours of a rainbow. However, I do enjoy the colours of a rainbow that I can see. This is a rainbow ..  

  • Shopping alone for clothes. There is always the risk of looking like a clown.

  • Co-ordinating my wardrobe - One time I got so frustrated that I gathered all the clothes in my arms and threw them on the floor and jumped all over them smashing all the hangers into a million pieces. My ex girlfriend Helen helped me make a little red book full of weird and wonderful outfits, to save me having to choose what to wear. It was a bit like a meal plan, but instead of food it consisted of clothes, with distinguishable features like stars or stripes or a label.This meant that on any given day, I could pick an outfit without having to throw a tantrum.  
These are some things I would never become:

An electrician like Dad because they wire things up and colours are important to them, especially if they want to stay alive.

Aeroplane pilot -This could be tricky because they use colour coded glide path indicators on runways, and I may end up landing the plane on the roof of somebody's house. 
    Painter and decorator. The thought of having to mix paint makes gives me a migraine. It’s the in-betweenie pastel colours that irritate me. The ones on the swatch cards that all look the same ( that couples argue over when choosing what colour to paint the living room.)

    A fashion advisor like Gok Wan - my clients would end up looking worse than ever, and probably commit sucicide, and I would be sued by the vicitims families.

    The reason I know I could never be Gok  is because in the mid 80's  I blagged my way into a Saturday job as a sales assistant in a men’s clothing store.
    Unfortuntately, back then  bright/ neon colour was big business which meant BIG trouble for people like me.

    Everything was soooo BIG  in the 1980's- BIG hair, BIG shoulder pads, BIG phones. ( It's true - the mobile phone was as BIG as a house brick, and was a status symbol for yuppies.Yuppie was short for young urban professional - a term that first came into use in the 1980s, which refers to a financially secure, upper-middle-class young person in their twenties or thirties.)
    I quickly developed a  system of working that would have made even Gok proud. When customers asked for a specific colour, I would keep holding up items until they nodded. When the customer nodded it meant we had a colour match. 
    If the customer asked me to choose an alternative for them, I would randomly pick up items of clothing and convince the customer to buy it. This is a sample conversation...

    Me; 'now this shirt really suits your skin tone.
    Them; 'Do you really think so',
    Me;' It makes you look like Simon Le Bon'. (Simon Le Bon was the good looking singer from 80's pop group Duran Duran)

    The Simon Le Bon comment was usually enough to make the sale.

    Sadly, I decided to retire early from fashion consultancy, after a woman from the local housing estate, threatened to beat me up for selling a lime green sweater with flourescent pink trim to her colour deficient boyfriend. Ooops!

     An optimist is a person who sees a green light everywhere, while a pessimist sees only the red stoplight... the truly wise person is colorblind. Albert Schweitzer

    During my time at big school, art teacher Mr Pomfret  had taken me under his wing, and encouraged me to avoid colours entirely and draw using only a pencil.

    The following year at big school, art teacher Mr Shakelton encouraged me to draw using black ink pen, and introduced me to the wacky world of blue and yellow poster paint.  
    Shaks was a cranky, odd, sorta fella. He had a record player linked up to a pair of battered old speakers in the classroom, and loved to play Madam butterfly, claiming that it would stir up the creative juices. Something must have stirred because later that year I was awarded the school art prize. A £5.00 voucher to spend at WHSmith. 

    Soon after that, I discovered photography. Dad was a keen photographer, and occasionally he would let me tinker around with his camera.. That christmas I recieved my first proper camera ; a second hand 35mm Single lens reflex Pentax ME Super with a 50mm 1.7 lens. It was top bananas! 

    One weekend I was invited to join my tutor Mr Doidge and Wally- my best mate, on a photographic expedition to Martin Mere (which is a bird sanctuary in the middle of nowhere.) It was here, I made my first pictures. Mr Doidge said that I had a natural eye for composition. (Mr Doidge ended up doing sex with Wally’s Mum who was a dinner lady at the big school, and during my final year  he was hit by a cricket ball on the head and died.)

    Being a handy man, Dad built me a proper darkroom. Now Im not talking about one of them makeshift bathroom conversions where you stick in a red bulb and place your developer and fixer trays inbetween the matey bubble bath and rubber duck. This was a proper darkroom in the back yard. It had work tops, and a permanent red light, and drawers for photographic paper. It even had a state of the art intercom system so that Mum could let me know when my tea was ready.

    Nige .. Your teas ready
    Nige .. I’m putting it out
    Nige.. Its going cold
    Nige .. If you don’t come and get this blood dinner its going in the bin!

    The darkroom became my secret hideaway. A place where I could go and forget about the world,and experiment with techniques like pseudo-solarization ( The effect was usually cause by exposing film to light before before processing.) Here is one of my favourite pseudo solarized pictures...

    I enjoyed black and white photography, but desperately wanted to experiment with colour. I was convinced that if I could master colour then I could achieve my goals. So I spent the next few years trying to get rid of colour deficiency, but nothing worked because it doesn't go anywhere. I ended up feeling completely inadequate- caged by CVD, unable to fully express myself creatively for fear of being ridiculed.

    Then, one day I thought about my cockagreenspaniel and smiled. To the rest of the world the dog was brown, but in my world the dog was definately green.

    It was time to offer people another way of looking at things, but to allow this to happen I would first have to say YES to colour deficiency, so thats exactly what I did. I said YES and embraced it wholeheartedly- started to fill my world with colour. There could be no compromise! With self acceptance, my confidence increased and so did belief in my talents and ablilites. Frustration quickly transformed into fruition, and I started to see the world through new eyes.

    The goal of the heroes journey is yourself, finding yourself' Joseph Campbell

     My images are simple, strong, and colourful with impact.

    I make a picture...

    And when that one is complete I make another one...

    And another...

    Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
    Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

    It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.

    We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,

    talented and fabulous?
    Actually, who are you not to be?

    You are a child of God.

    Your playing small does not serve the world.

    There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other

    people won't feel insecure around you.

    We were born to make manifest the glory of

    God that is within us.

    It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

    And as we let our own light shine,
    we unconsciously give other people
    permission to do the same.

    As we are liberated from our own fear,
    Our presence automatically liberates others.

    —Marianne Williamson

    Im so glad that I became friends with 'that green dog'.

    Click on the link below to check out Nige's photography ...

    Monday, 10 May 2010

    Father And Son

    Dad sat staring into space; he had been diagnosed with 'that lung cancer'- The one with the long name that begins with the letter 'M' thats awkward to pronounce - the incurable, unforgiving  kind that rips through the body like a black tornado.

    I rushed over and knelt beside him, resting  my head against his, and cried. I seemed to be under the false impression that cancer was something that only happens to other people.

    My Dad was a fit man, who liked to walk up hill and down dale. He especially loved Arran. The Isle of Arran is the largest island in the firth of Clyde, Scotland and is the seventh largest Scottish island. Arran is full of big mountains, and Dad loved to climb them.

    Growing up, Dad was my first experience of God. He was my first friend, my teacher, I watched his every move trying to emulate him at every opportunity.

    We never had lots of money, which meant that exotic holidays in sunny faraway places where a bit out of our league. So we went camping, walking, and exploring instead.

    Aged 9 or 10, Dad, Mum, siss, and me climbed Scafell Pike, which at 3.209ft is the highest mountain in England. My little legs ached so badly that half way up the mountain I collapsed into a heap by a stream. Dad sat with me and we washed our faces in the icy water, and then he looked at me and said, ‘come on son, you can make it’. So, I stood up and continued my walk until I reached the top.

    'The sun shines not on us , but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fibre and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing.' John Muir

    Pops also introduced me to the wonderful world of cycling.

    The day I finally shed my bike stabilisers in the nursery playground Pops was there cheering me on. Later that same day, we celebrated my graduation with a glass of Irn Bru (which is a carbonated drink that originated from Scotland), and a wagon wheel (which is a round biscuit representing the wheel of a wagon. It has a marshmallow centre and is covered in a chocolate flavoured coating.)

    A few years later Dad gave me a hefty bright red road bike as a gift, which he had built for me from bits of old bikes. It was beautiful !

    Dad would spend hours telling me all about his cycling adventures. He often spoke about Arthur Banks( the clever one), Bill Corone ( the lazy one), and Jimmy Savage ( the stupid one ). These boys were Dads
    A-Team, and together they cycled the country from end to end, in an attempt to get away from it all. According to cycle folklore my Dad was the fiercest hill climber on two wheels.

    Pops often told me about a ride he had once completed over the remote Salter fell. Then, one bright sunny morning he said that it was time. So, we packed our cheese and cucumber sarnies, filled our bottles with tap water, and set off, man and boy, in search of an isolated Roman Road between the villages of Wray and Slaidburn. This would prove to be a ride of Herculean proportions; a right of passage! The sun was beating down on us, and we both struggled in the heat. The road was rocky and muddy in places, and we had to dismount and carry the bikes.
    Eventually, after hours both in and out of the saddle, we finally hit our wall. From that moment on it was like riding in porridge. Darkness fell, and we struggled to stay upright, leaning on each other for support like war heroes. ( See picture below ). How we made time to laugh amidst the fatigue is beyond me, but laugh we did - all the way home.

    Sadly, things started to turn sour between Dad and me during my teenage years, when I  realised that no matter how hard I tried to be like him I just kept falling short of the mark. I ended up blaming  him for my pain, believing that he had abandoned me, and spent the next few years walking the solitary path of fear - an emtpy shell -  Dadless!

    It was only during time spent in Canada in 93/94 after discovering a  book called  A Course in Miracles  that I discovered the true power of  forgiveness. ACIM  is all about  relinquishing a thought system based on fear and returning to Love. I was blown away by its teachings,and made a conscious choice to invite healing into all my relationships. I started to study the Course, and that Christmas returned to England to conduct a series of interviews with my family, in an attempt to discover more about myself. The results were nothing short of miraculous.

    Here I was sitting in a room with a man who as a boy had been cast aside like an old worn out sweater, by a Father who according to Dad emptied the house of all its contents and disappeared leaving the family with nothing. He had to grow up quickly, often looking after his brother and sister whilst his mother went out to work in the factory.

    Dad always believed something was missing in his life, that he was robbed of a childhood.

    The walls of separation came crashing down in a moment of forgiveness, and I felt an overwhelming sense of Love for this broken man, who believed he was failure. I held him against me and cried for the boy; his boy, my boy, all of it!

    From that moment on we became best buddies.

    The night Dad revealed he had 'that cancer' I had a dream that  I heard a voice in my head  saying .. 'You will have a party for Dad and everyone will come.' It reminded me of the bit in the movie Field of Dreams,when Kevin Costner is told to 'build and field and they will come.' I decided to take a risk and tell my girlfriend Elloa, who smiled and gave me a big hug.

    When I first told Mum about the party she was a bit hesitant, but within a few days she was full of enthusiasm. She sorted out the buffet, made a guest list ,and then between us we started sending out invites.

    Shortly after Dad was diagnosed with 'that cancer' he went on holiday with Mum  to Whitby. Mum later told me, that Dad decided to walk one last mountain with Mum by his side cheering him on, the same way he cheered me on Scafell. Dad adored the great outdoors, and he loved sharing life with Mum - mighty companions. This holiday was a time for quiet reflection- a decision was made - there would be no chemo!

    Unfortunately,  Dad had been taken into hospital a few days before the party because his legs had swelled up like mitchelin man and he kept being sick. We prayed that he would make it to the party, and our prayers were answered the day before the big day, when a nice man in a white coat  informed Mum that Pops would be released from hospital for the day so that he could attend the party.

    I wheeled Dad out of the hospital on the morning of the party thinking that he looked old and frail. His ears resembled cab doors. The wheelchair was more like a dysfunctional  shopping trolley. We both laughed as I bumped the wheelchair like a dodgem on the revolving doors.

    Later, I took Dad for a short, back and sides at the local barbers and then we sat in the café on the corner of Bridge Street and had a cuppa.

    My oldest pal Kate suggested that I make a scrapbook for Dad all about his life. (Kate is my bezzie because she asked me if I wanted to share a locker with her on my first day at primary school) I decided to  make the scrapbook childlike using strong copied images of the 'good ol days', and wrote simple quotes from family interviews.using my non dominant hand, I also added a piece from Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl.

    It was all over now. My father and I stood alone just outside the workshop and suddenly the old place seemed to become very quiet.
    ‘Well, Danny,’ my father said, looking at me with those twinkly eyes of his. ‘ That’s that .’
    ' It was fun, Dad.’
    ‘I know it was,’ he said.
    ‘ I really loved it,’ I said.
    'So did I, Danny.’
    He placed one hand on my shoulder and we began walking slowly towards the caravan.
    ‘ Maybe we should lock the pumps and take a holiday for the rest of the day,’ he said.
    ‘You mean not open up at all?’
    ‘ Why should we?’ he said. ‘ After all it’s Saturday, isn’t it?’
    ‘ But we always stay open on Saturdays, Dad. And Sundays.’
    ‘ Maybe its time we didn’t ,’ he said. ‘ We could so something interesting instead. Something more interesting.’
    I waited , wondering what was coming next.
    ‘ Good,’ I said. ‘ Lovely.’ I reached out and slid my hand into his. He folded his long fingers round my fist and held it tight, and we walked on towards the village where soon the two of us would be inspecting all the different ovens with great care and talking to Mr Wheeler personally about them.
    And after than, we would walk home again and make up some sandwiches for our lunch.
    And after that we would set off with the sandwiches in our pockets, striding up over Cobblers Hill and down the other side to the small wood of larch trees with the stream running through it.
    And after that?There would be something else after that.
    And after that?Ah yes, and something else again.

    Because what I am trying to tell you…

    What I have been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply that my father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvellous and exciting father any boy ever had.

    That evening before the party I placed  the scrapbook in Dads hands and left him alone with his thoughts. A few minutes later he emerged from the bedroom clutching the scrap book with tears streaming down his face and said ‘Its beautiful.’

    I was feeling nervous before the party, because I had agreed to sing for Dad. I chose three Frank Sinatra Songs which I knew Dad would love; The way you look tonight; Young at heart, and You make me feel so young.  The year before I had performed in front of a thousand people at the Theatre Royal in the show My Fair Lady but somehow this was different. I was performing for Dad, and he was the one who had introduced me to Sinatra in the first place. Bloody el!
    I  took a deep breathe, and gave myself permission to fall apart.
    There is something miraculous about acceptance. In my experience it softens the edges of the heart and makes space for Love to shine. I sang my heart out! Later that evening Dad said  ' You did me proud son.'

    I stood on stage behind the dj booth, watching people from all walks of life queuing to have their final moment with this down to earth bloke from Lancashire. Dad seemed perfectly content, chatting, laughing and joking with old friends and family.
    When the party was over he said in his strong Lancashire accent  ' It was a good do lad' .

    The day after the party  Dad and me sat on the bed looking at a framed photograph of a mountain which Dad had made on one of his adventures. We talked openly about life and death, sorting out the loose ends and letting go,  We leaned on each other, Father and son, laughing and crying at the absurdity of it all.  He had always said that the most difficult thing about growing old was watching his friends go before hiim.

    During the next couple of months Dads health deteriorated, and he was moved into the East Lancs Hospice- which is the place where people go to die with dignity.
    I was slap bang in the middle of a DJ gig when I recieved the call telling me that Dad was dying. I could feel myself sprialling. I dedicated a Sinatra song to him - You Make Me Feel So Young. 
    Later that  evening, I rang the Hospice and spoke with the nurse, who told me that Dad was preparing to leave his body. She said that I could speak with him but he wouldn't be able to answer, because he had thrush in his throat, which is a bit like eating razor blades. When I spoke, the nurse said that he had opened his eyes.I thanked him for being a wonderful Father, and told him that he it was safe to let go, and make the final journey. 

    Dad died peacefully in the early hours of the following morning with Mum holding his hand. His ashes will be scattered in the wind on the mountain of Glenrosa, Isle of Arran later this year.

    Young at Heart

    Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
    If you’re young at heart
    For its hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind
    If you’re young at heart

    You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
    You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
    And life gets more exciting with each passing day
    And love is either in your heart or on its way

    Don’t you know that its worth every treasure on earth
    To be young at heart
    For as rich as you are its much better by far
    To be young at heart

    And if you should survive to 105
    Look at all you’ll derive out of being alive
    Then here is the best part
    You have a head start
    If you are among the very young at heart

    And if you should survive to 105
    Look at all you’ll derive out of being alive
    Then here is the best part
    You have a head start
    If you are among the very young at heart

    I feel truly blessed to have known this beautiful man. His spirit lives on... in me. Thanks Dad X    

     ‘To understand the nature of God it is necessary only to know the nature of love itself. To truly know love is to know and understand God;and to know God is to understand love.’ David R. Hawkins