The mind has the ability to digest any truth that is read, and in turn have the spirit chime in that, yes, it rings true. We are creations that have inherited The Truth of The Universe, which knows no language or form. By default we possess this inner knowing, and sometimes we hear and read symbols on earth that resonate with this wisdom, that sing the tune of Truth we feel deep in our chests.
We receive these signals, then we go back to work–the tending, the caring, the abiding by, the responding–we are left with our patterns: the coats we have tried on, the shawls left on a sidewalk for someone else to use, ones so invisible to us that we have adopted them as a part of our skins, some removed then recovered in a later time of life, others stumbled into, given to us, then coats our earth guardians have zipped up to our chins upon being brought into the world. Coats that distract us from the core of our knowing. Coats that we needed until we realized we didn’t. But there is always the return, the promise of moments in time when we remember who we are–when the sun rises and presents a color we haven’t witnessed before, yet somehow recognize, the slip of the tongue of children around us–their simple questions worth asking that tell us systems we deem as ultimate, are not so ultimate after all, and then when we read a message delivered in such a way, that it speaks directly to the God within. Moments in meditation when we reach The Realm of Simply Being, when chords are sequentially delivered from the divine, their melodies like the palms of heaven’s hands, cupped delicately over your ears, and then sometimes the moment is in those brief milliseconds upon waking, before remembering our bodies, our walls, our obligations. These moments present themselves all life long, and in between those moments we wear our coats, and try to move along as the world is moving along, between sun rise and sun down, stepping into footsteps, looking for pathways, finding temporary comfort in coats familiar.
Then there are chapters of times in our lives, where instead of living between these moments, we are among them, when we consistently remember we have machete’s to find a clearing in The Wild, we have our songs and our hands and our blood. Blood unlike, yet very much a part of, the blood that came before us, that created us, carried us, the blood of our neighbors, the blood in the winged above, the blood in the cold below. Blood of mineral and iron and stories–stories made of coats that were gifts, that were left behind, worn until ragged, made anew, dipped in spring water, buried in ash. We are actively alive and inside of every story made up of these Truth Moments, where messages were delivered, and Remembrance Rang through. All the blood before and beyond, given their very own messages of the same Exquisite Infinite.
May waves of these Truth Moments take hold of us all, and carry us for longer and longer amounts of time in all of time’s capacities. May we gain a way of weaving ourselves through our words and actions that are rooted in these Rememberings we all carry. And may we take the time to deliberately remember.
May mothers remember the daughters within themselves, and laugh with mouths so wide-open that they taste sun, and drink in moon–may our feet made-for-dirt and sky, find no inhibitions in our dances, our greetings, our runnings, our work.
May fathers remember the sons within themselves, and pause along pathways to ask their why’s, and how’s, and what for’s–may their throats thirst for Truth, and be quenched in returning to connectivity.
May all of our vessels be recognized as Holy,
all of us look one another in the eye,
in recognition of the sacred.
May our coats be disregarded and used only for good–
celebrated, transmuted, taken off when too heavy.
May we hold the infinite wisdom, as residing in messages abound,
and infuse it’s simple potency into the invisible of our daily lives.
For the world transforms into more balance,
the longer we swim in those moments of remembering,
the more we accept as individuals,
that it is in those moments,
the real work is done.