I send out a call to arms, arms of love, that is. Everything is within your grasp, so you might as well hug it. Hug the globe of the world, and then spin it. You and the world are spinning anyway. There is not a moment that you are not spinning, and there is not a moment when you are not in absolute stillness.

The thought that you are spinning may be dizzying, but the spinning itself is calming.

There are rides at amusement parks that spin you. They are nothing next to the natural spinning of the Universe and you. The Whirling Dervishes are on to something.

The physical, as you know it, does try to keep up with the momentum of the Universe. The physical, as you know it, wants to match up with everything else. Of course, each atom is spinning, so in a way, your body does keep up with the Universe.

Beloveds, you are not at all the limited personage you think you are.

You spin the Universe and you are spun by it, and you are also a spinner of tales. You create drama. You live in your story. You are attached to it. And yet there is a centrifugal force that spins you away from any story of your life or story of the world.

Whatever the seeming plot, whatever the inciting events, I am your story. No matter all the versions of life in the world, I am the story that unfolds. Regardless of the intrigue, there is no plot. There is no action. There is no transgression. There is no muddlement. There is no mystery to life. There are no waves upon the sea.

In truth, there is an Ocean, and it is tideless.

The panorama you live in is a panorama. Stillness bespeaks of itself in varied ways even as it is silent.

The life you lead, the world, they are all made-up. They seem real, yet they are the fantasy acting itself out.

You are not even the person you think you are and know. You are so much more. You are not tall or short. You are not befuddled. You are not stuck to Earth, the Earth that, when all is said and done, does not even exist except as a play. You are a performer in a giant play. This play has great dramatic interest, yet it is only a play. It is staged. It is not real.

Oh, yes, it seems real, sometimes only too real. What is fleeting, beloveds, is not real. A coat of paint is not real. The house you live in is not real. Made of nuts and bolts, it still is not real.

Spirit is real. Soul is real. Heart is a connecting point. What your heart feels may or may not reflect Truth. When you feel love, then your heart is real. When your heart is stormy, it carries illusion. Anything less than love is illusion. Can you agree with Me now that the world is illusion, and that the only thing that matters in it is love?

Can you divert yourself from old crudities of life, all the agreed-upon illusion of circumstance and happenstance, all the turmoil, all the doubt, all the factions, all a play within a play? The real storylessness is told, and yet few hear. Yet hear even a glimpse, and you will recognize. You will not really be able to put your arms around it, and yet you will know it. You will know it the way you know Me, and then you will be free. You will live in the so-called world, and yet you will not be of it. You will be greater than that, greater than the world as seen through the eyes of itself. You will begin to see through My eyes. Oh, that is something to look forward to, to see through My eyes, and to live My vision! Oh, yes, you have great happiness coming to you.