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jodiJodi A. Zeramby has had a rich history of interacting with the metaphysical community before finding her way to the Lightarian Institute. She has received all Lightarian modalities including Lightarian™ Reiki, Lightarian Rays™ , Lightarian Clearings™, Lightarian AngelLinks™, the Expansion Program, and the Purification Rings™. In fact, she played a leading role with creating the Lightarian Purification Rings™ program. In addition to her role as a Lightworker, Jodi is an author, attorney, and educator. With her education and skills, Jodi offers a practical outlook to the Lightarian modalities.

To learn more about Jodi, please visit our Staff page.

Posted: April 2007

The Power of Intent: Fear or Love?
by Jodi A. Zeramby

While in college, I participated in a two-year pilot program that integrated Humanities, Social Sciences, and Natural Sciences. This rigorous, innovative course-load introduced me to various masters. One lesson sought to familiarize us with the complexity of music theory. As I listen to Beethoven this day, I recall watching a pianist who performed with obvious relish while explaining the mindset of the composer, the flow of music, the crescendos and diminuendos, staccatos and slurs, dissonance, legato, chords, tempo, mood—all which affect the message of the song.

Music is a wonderful way to reflect emotion, don’t you agree? It can stir the gambit of feelings, all through the manipulation of sound. According to the density, octave, sustenance, and sharpness of the deliverance of the notes, we may feel soothed, agitated, satisfied, or wanting. The ebb and flow of a song’s rhythm can cause rage, upheaval, and tightness. On the other hand, it can relax, complete, and calm. All are caused by the arrangement of notes in a certain tempo, loudness, and consistency. Amazing! For instance, a piano player can stimulate or alleviate a person’s stress just through playing an amalgamation of notes. A loud silence before a burst of staccato sounds can startle a listener. In addition, a musician, like an actor, has the ability to interpret what is on the page—the notes, or in an actor’s case, the words—and inflect emotion just through their conveyance. Even more wonderful is that the musician can change the message of the song every time, even when playing the same exact notes, merely through the strength of the sound, the quickness of the beat, and the juxtaposition of the silences.

Although no words are attached to a musical arrangement, the essence of the message may be stronger than that which any lyrics could convey. Have you watched a pianist perform? How the player will seem to be singing the notes as he plays them? That person is in synch with the emotional resonance of the music, tasting the emotions. The refrain swells like an incoming wave while the low notes wrap around a person’s heart like a warm blanket, the plink of higher notes reflect lightness of being, the sharp notes rob the listener of breath, or the flat notes cause trepidation—the emotions are undeniable if we only open our souls to the message within the composition.

I played the clarinet for several years. During that time I nurtured a deep respect for composers, particularly those who created the various instrumental parts for an orchestra.

To be able to transition from strings to percussion, brass to woodwinds, bass to alto—what a nimble mind! Weaving the notes around, among, above, below other sections of composition—anticipating, kneading, lifting creating—meanings, reactions, emotions, creating the aching anticipation as the song begins, the anxious breath-holding as the song nears its climax, the sense of fulfillment as the various notes evoke their spell and entwine the soul with a feeling of satiation by the song’s end—heady stuff.

Language is an extension of music. More notes, more complexly linked—yet also used to translate emotion. We add vocal intonation to cue the listener of the sounds’ meaning. Even when listening to another language, one can interpret much of the meaning simply by the cadence of the uttered words. Add on facial and physical cues and an observant person can understand fairly well what message the speaker is transmitting. Emotions are universal. So, words are a structured sequence of sounds placed together to confer meaning to another.

The pronunciation, enunciation, and invocation of each sound stir the listener in a visceral way. Emphasizing a syllable with a particular tonality translates a wealth of information. Sorrow, anger, despair—we hear these messages through the inflection of the words and see them reflected by a person’s body, such as when a speaker’s hands clench, his eyebrows pull down like a thundercloud, and he utters his words in a low, rumbling delivery deriving straight from the gut. Whereas elation, joy, and happiness are also easy to spot by the speaker’s shining eyes, open face, and open stance.

Words are wonderful, aren’t they? But, I feel I don’t know enough of them. Sure I’ve heard them, virtually since I was born, and I use them—in my thoughts and in my interactions. Yet, I feel that I am the master of relatively few words. Their nuances, their shades of meaning, their colors, their textures, their energy. The negative and positive connotations, the taste of them when uttered or even called upon in thought. It makes me want to not use words—but how else can I communicate, even if it is only imperfectly? I love mulling over the feeling of a word, like a fine wine. Rolling it around in my mouth and mind to feel it reverberate with its essence. Of course, intention is paramount. When we invoke a word, the significance attached to it depends upon its delivery, just like in music. The weight of words becomes oppressive, impressive, expressive. I could crush with them. I could embrace with them. Uplift, rip down, create, destroy with them. And who am I? How can I have such power? Why do I have such power? How, why do I allow others to possess such power? We use words so cavalierly, in such a careless way. Yet, it is one of our best tools for connecting with others.

In John Gardner’s book, Grendel, which is based on Beowulf, the monster says, “Talking, talking, spinning a spell, pale skin of words that closes me in like a coffin.” The monster is lamenting his state of affairs—others describe him as an unholy being, evil and cruel. As he hears others’ words, Grendel accepts their points of view and becomes what they say. He steps into the role, although he was neither evil nor cruel—merely misunderstood, alone, and afraid. Thus, the power of words. It can change a person (or in this case, a monster), if one allows, to great good or to great evil. Moreover, the words became its own entity—a living, breathing energy with which Grendel interacted. He became connected to those who despised him by the link of their words, which he heard and internalized. He was no longer alone, if only because now he had a purpose—to terrorize the villagers.

Unlike in poor Grendel’s case, words, as music, can bestow great enlightenment. It can illuminate a person’s heart and soul. However, words are interpreted. We insert our point of view by using our own perception, filtered by our experiences. The way I interpret words may be entirely different from the way you do since we have lived very separate lives.

I once heard a person posit this question: “How does one find truth without fear?” How, indeed. Truth is subjective. It is dependent upon sensory input that the mind receives and interprets. Truth can be different for each person. The same with beauty. Imagination determines beauty and impresses its definition on the senses. Emotion tinges the perceptions of what constitutes truth or beauty. In effect truth is beauty. Moreover, the perception of truth or beauty is not necessarily real.

Why is fear attached to truth? Is it fear of the unknown? Fear of not being in control? Fear of expectations not being met? Fear of disappointment? Fear of pain?

If a person seeks the truth from a place of non-judgment and self-love, from a sense of acceptance, no fear will attach to the truth. Part of claiming one’s power is to recognize that the truth is neither good nor bad—it just is. There are no mistakes; everything is perfect. When one accepts, truly accepts, oneself—one accepts truth and all that exists, all that is possible, all that was.

People are predominated by two emotions: love and fear. All other emotions stem from them. We label these emotions as positive and negative. Love is the root of all positive emotions—joy, happiness, empowerment, knowledge, passion, eagerness, positive expectation, hope. Fear is at the other end of the emotional spectrum causing grief, depression, despair, uncertainty, insecurity, anger, worry, doubt. Think of any emotion—it can go under one of these two categories by how it makes you feel. I submit for your consideration that one can find truth by embracing love—love of self, love of others, love of life. The trick is to equate the truth with neither positive nor negative connotations.

William Wordsworth said, “Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams—can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.” It is our minds that create positive and negative emotions. It is the mind that blocks and frees us. We create our struggles, our heartbreak, our suffering—all our experiences. On some level we give ourselves permission to feel “bad.” Why? To build character? To feel worthy of the “good” experiences we allow ourselves? Why not invest that time and energy into “positive” emotions and “good” experiences? Focus on accepting what is at each given moment, on being entirely present in the now, while not dwelling on any interpretation or categorization of how your life is unfolding. See how your perception changes.

2007 copyright Jodi A. Zeramby

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