There in the infinite space of your breath do I lay my head, face eastward toward the sun. I am guided always by the light. It is the way. It is the star of my following when night falls and the quiet feels haunting. How serene your voice. How mysterious the way of alignment that I can only pause the thinking of my thoughts to listen. I hear always your voice and follow its sound through doors that are opened to me, and I experience the Magic every time I walk through. I dance in celebration of your bounty and abundance, and for the good that is laid before me on a table at which I sit beside you. There is neither haste nor angst. I sit with a heart open to the supper when it arrives. It is there in the wait of my sitting that I smell the ingredients of manifestation, my heart beating in grateful anticipation, my mouth watering for the feast. Every step walked through life has led me here, and I open wide my being that I feel the essence of you sweep through me like a wind whose only intention is to heal, to lift, and to carry. I am sustained, and it is my sustenance that brings me to my knees in prostration for the materialization of clear intention. Then it arrives, and I am awed by the fullness of your gift. I asked but for a plate and you have offered me a platter.
I dance with God, because it is the path of the Divine. There is no road traveled outside the realm of the light. So bright it is that I am awakened to the fullness of its moon in my sleep. I am led always beside waters still where the current takes me into vastness and releases me into life’s abundance. How open my heart and awakened my soul to the gift of this life and the way of the journey. I walk. My feet bare that I might feel the earth beneath me, experience the connection to the hand that has given life to all. I am matter, a form filled with spirit that runs the river of my being that I might go there to the deep end and test the waters. My faith sustains me, allows me to breathe underwater and walk atop its vibration. I lose myself in the Magic, awed by the way of its mystery and grateful to see.
May my eyes land always upon your grace.
May my ears hear the voice so clearly I cannot deny the way.
May my feet carry me through doors opened by your breath.
May my heart expand inside the abundant over flow.
May my prayer be a mantra in the meditation of my sitting that I draw ever nigh to you.
There is a space inside life’s vastness where the door is open. It leads us to the revelation that all things are made available to us in each moment that we choose. What we choose comes from the place of our consciousness at any point in time, and through the space and time where the point intersects with movement. Our choices are the manifestation of thought, where we are inside the rhythm of vibration—high or low—a pulse of intuition leading us ever so close to the start of beginnings anew. We birth from the seeds planted in the soil of either our cultivation or our neglect. This, too, is a choice along the path of the way. It is the path of gratitude that awakens the flower from its sleep and brings it into full bloom stretching across the landscape of life’s breath. The depth of our breathing is as vast or as shallow as the way of our gratitude. There exist no limitations in life. The expanse but a glimpse of the all from which we choose, and it is when we choose from a place of mindful knowing, led by the pulse of our intuition, that we multiply the birthing of seeds scattered with intention and watered by prayers.
The quiet is nice. It stands out to me in the moment that I silence sound, shutting off Netflix or turning away from social media. It’s like turning those lights off turns on the Light. Every moment ripe with its own purpose, whatever I see it to be. The quiet allows me to hear, and to be with myself and my thoughts. I feel most creative the instant I silence sound and become conscious of the quiet. That moment bursts with light—stilled fireworks.
This time in my life is about the quiet, I can tell. It shows its face everywhere I look, and it reminds me of its presence. I’m aware of the quiet and its voice of silence. It doesn’t go missing or fall short on me. I see the gift that it is, so I turn to it for guidance and direction, and for the openings of creativity. We commune, the quiet and I. We spend time in each other’s presence, listening, engaging.
There is rich stillness in the quiet. It feels dense, weighing me with answers and awareness, the omens that I follow. I am awed by how heavy feels so light when rightly aligned, and I listen always for alignment, and for the way in which I am to follow the omens. I go always there, in the direction of life’s pointing, not my own.
*owner of image unknown.
Sitting at my altar today communing with life, the energy of the magnanimous now came to me. I reached for what was available, Post-It notes and a pen.
What does that mean, the magnanimous now? For me it is the vast space of the open road. It is the beginning, the creator of all that is and the potential back of manifestation. It is also the resting place of quiet, like a pond in the early morning when the fog and mist are one. It is the place of contemplation and receptivity to what reveals itself. It is true. All things are to be found in the present, in the magnanimous now. How do we go there? How do we slow ourselves enough to go, and where is it that we go in search? Within. We each carry the magnanimous now within. There is no physical place. There is no need to go anywhere or do something that feels a task, another thing to list or ping us to remind. No. Life is designed to support us, to hold us, and to carry us along the way, wherever we go, regardless of the path we travel en route. It simplifies the steps reducing the many to the one: turn toward.
Turning toward, or leaning in, asks only that we pause, close our eyes and acknowledge what presents to us in that quiet clarity, be it our alignment or resistance or gratitude or our behavior or the overwhelming gamut of our thoughts. Turning toward is but consciously taking a moment and allowing the Holy to enter. God. Who is God? You are. I am. We are the manifestation of the very breath of the Holy, which means nothing separates us from that Essence. Further, that with the practice of going within and sitting with the Holy, we have access to vast awareness; we have access to the answers before the question has been asked. We are magicians who sit and learn from the truth of life until the alchemy creates the One.
Lean-in to yourself and hear the message that is being offered in the space of the magnanimous now. Often that is the impetus behind our unhappiness or suffering or discomfort: to turn us toward the within and to be there, fully so. This impetus is a gift—sacred—and one small enough to pocket and carry, yet vast enough to turn water to wine.
“To be “sociable”—to talk merely because convention forbids silence, to rub against one another in order to create the illusion of intimacy and contact: what an example of la condition humaine. Exhausting, naturally like any improper use of our spiritual resources. In miniature, one of the many ways in which mankind successfully acts as its own scourge—in the hell of spiritual death.” – Excerpted from Dag Hammarskjöld’s Markings, Pg 63
There is something about sound that brings comfort even when a false sense or when dressed in chaos. It becomes the backdrop of life, the white noise that soothes when the room goes dark and quiet and we are alone there staring at the ceiling. To whom do we reach for in the dark when there is but the sound of our own breathing, the rise and fall of our chest quickening in motion chasing after a Monkey Mind running fearfully afraid of being abandoned.
At early ages, we are taught to socialize. One’s natural inclination to sit and discover the body, the mind, and the extremities overridden by the voice of parentals with their well-intended guidance that too often suffocate and stifle. They keep an ear out for sound, and when the backroom where the adolescent is housed falls quiet, they call out afraid that they’re up to something. They don’t know you well enough to know that you can be left to your own devices, and that you secretly crave the quiet. Continue reading “Markings by Dag Hammarskjöld: A Response”