I close my eyes that I might hear the way. Tiptoeing across transparent floors that see deeply inside my soul. You know me even when I have yet to contemplate what it means to be a self. I am your prodigy still learning how to walk on water, what it means to turn two loaves of bread and a few fish into that which feeds the multitude. I sit there in class dazed, drawn in by the philosophical truth of your knowing that I, too, might come to know. It is my heartbeat. Hear it. Like rain trickling down into swamps where murky waters cloud my vision. Still you believe in me like awakened dreams from deep sleep.
Call my name! Call my name!
Clearly that I might hear the voice of you divine like light at night moon shining into the depths of my being. I am alone in deep solitude listening.
Sometimes I feel stopped. Perhaps “paused” is a better word; it has the inclination of, at some point, moving beyond the standing still.
It comes to me in timeless waves the way insight just appears, the way inspiration shows its face, the way the pen beckons paper and demands: WRITE.
These pauses keep me from moving in the time of my desire, of my thinking. Not all things occur in our time; still they occur in time.
I am learning to be with that, to be with the pauses without having a say, without comment or under-the-breath snarky-ness. I’m learning to be quiet in order to be with. I have after all asked that I live inside the alignment of the highest vibration.
Oh, yeah, that.
The sooner I silence myself the sooner I come to the next moment:
And life happens again, pen to paper and my ability to hear the voice.
It’s been written before, often in solitude where the voices couldn’t be heard.
This is the space of the mind.
This is the place where words form shape before slipping off again into the vast unknown space of non-existence. What truly exists when all things come and go, when all things rise and fall inside the breath of impermanence?
We question only that we might come to understand.
Time has no beginning and no ending; we are the ones walking in and out of it, losing ourselves to the lost hours passing on the clock.
We question to where it has gone when it has been us all along. We are the walkers, the dreamers, the sleepers who awaken at the final moment asking for more.
They aren’t lost on me. The words. It is but a game in hide-and-seek, or so it seems in those moments when the words have not come calling and the voice of me seems lost behind the absence of inspiration.
Is not life the very essence of inspiration?
What then hides from your seeing? How long have you looked and in what direction of your turning have you not seen truth?
I have turned again toward the outside, looking there for what is to be. I have sat at cafes, eavesdropped on conversation in order to touch inspiration. I have…
You have not listened to what is true, what you know to be true. You have not turned within in the direction of clarity and understanding. The journey dwells on the inside even when the feet of you move forward in the world outside. What of your knowing have you hidden? With what of separation are you dancing?
Thoughts run and I chase them to a pause. I am always brought back to the pause as though I have no more breath to give to the chase, even as my breathing remains steady. It is then that I return to stillness, that I go within, that I remember what I am never to forget: Truth is always within.
It all stops in the moment you see the writing on the wall. All things external pause the inner. There is confusion inside the reach. Four walls hold you that you might come to remember the way has always been within. Look there. What of the eye sees clearly the way of clarity when the dust has been kicked up by shapes shifting outside of reach? You reach still. It touches you, brings you to a place of closure where the door opens and the beginning begins again. It has always been a cycle. That is the way when one forgets the mirror. See. It is but a reflection of the divine hidden behind fogged days seen only when the breeze sweeps over. It calls like echos. You hear only when the words feel like whispers against your breath. When have you last spoken to God? Meditation. Hold steady in the quiet. See clearly the way. Remember it is not in the reach but in the turning. You turn within when the reach is no longer.
When you see the way, walk. And when you arrive, continue. The destination opposes the journey. We arrive only in the move-space inside of time-travel. Pause. Breathe deeply that the feet of your walk endures the terrain. How quickly you stop inside of the continuity of breath. God breathed and you inhaled. This is the walk along the path to the embrace of vastness.
I open myself to you. This is the way. Within. I receive from you there inside the hollow walls. The echo is what I hear. Sound reverberating time and space that I might see only now. What more is there inside of this moment? It is here that I listen. May you continue to speak, and may my ears remain sensitive to the way of you. My |S|ource. I have tasted all things in a single sip from the Divine. Satiated. There is neither hunger nor thirst in the belly of |L|ife. May I nestle, and when cozy turns content, may I remember. It is a practice.