All is not lost. Nothing is all lost. Nothing is lost. This is hard to accept when you may see loss all around you. Loss of life, loss of limb, loss of love. What are all these but loss of illusion, a story told, and a story untold, a fiction related and unrelated, done and undone, flipped over to a new page. All that is owned only in order to be lost, beloveds? All of life in the world is a passage, a glimpse, a walking down a hall with certain sights and a banister your hand touches or you even hold onto.

It is that holding on that has to be let go of. Yes, that holding on. The hall you walk down is illusion. The banister is not real, yet you hang on to it as if it were, and you cry out when you no longer can feel your hand holding on to what is imagined. You feel cheated. You feel forlorn. And, yet, there are still more halls for you to walk down. There are more parks to visit and more people to meet and more people to say hello to, and more people to say good-by to. You are walking on a marathon, beloveds, and you brush by loved ones and sundry, and still you walk on the marathon.

When you mourn, you are mourning that a fire has now become cold embers. The campfire is out. It was only a campfire. There will be another by and by.

Life is current, not past, yet how you like to pull the past along with you. This is an illusion like any other. You don't want to let go of it. Even when it was not all that it was cracked up to be, you don't want to let go of it. Now find another dream to dream. You don't have to latch on to it. A moment does not have to be locked in place.

You are in a library of love. There is always another book to browse through and to take out. All the books in the library of life have a return date, didn't you know that? Impossible, but true. Every book of life is on loan. Every widget. Every occurrence or non-occurrence. Leave them all in the return slot and find some other books to take out. So many to choose from. Come right up. Books on loan.

Some return dates are open-ended, yet all books are returned.

The sun sets. Drapes are pulled. The stars come out. And tomorrow another sun rises, and you rise, and the stars go behind their curtains, and there is a new blue sky. Clouds pass. All passes before your very eyes. There is no holding life in place, for everything is moving, and you are moving, and you are flying and leaping, and all are dancing. You are dancing on the stars, beloveds. Wherever you may think your feet are, you are dancing on the stars, on the moon, on the sun, on the Milky Way. What a dancer of life you are. How long your steps are. How you pirouette, and how you do somersaults, and how you land and how you spin and how you take off and how you pick the flowers that tomorrow or the next day go back into the ground. You are a dancer of note.

You play the notes. There is no piper to pay. All is free exchange. You leap from freedom to freedom. You set sail for new lands. And you learn another dance, and you leap high, from underbrush to sky, from hill to dale, from one star to another and back again and off again. All this twirling is life. This is the light of life. Star-struck, and star-dust.