If I listen closely I can hear. It is the sound of breath leaving the space of voice, fading into the ether as though to leave is to have been called. We breathe easily until we don’t, choking on that which should sustain us. A breeze sweeps through and in an instant all things that were before are no longer. Is this impermanence? What of things taken away when the essence was to remain? Do we call this change? What of grief and loss? What of those left inside the four corners of their minds waking from deep sleep only to fall again in a slumber that reminds them of the terror of eyes open wide inside awakeness? It has left. It has gone forever, and there are no heavens inside of which we hold cameras to see the praises. When you release the air from that which lives it is gone forever from the sight of those who see. When you take life from another you plant a seed that will grow in backyards beyond your own. You have chopped down trees from the Garden of Eden. You have taken away ripe fruit in an attempt to create a people of starvation. One day will the weeds grow wildly about you and the ghost that is your shadow will appear. You will be haunted. It will come calling like the words of wrath spoken and your ears will ring with fear of the light shining on what you have done. But what of the now and of those whose tears fill-form puddles? They collapse inside of empty space and time. They cry out to any god who will listen. All life matters and yet you choose to carve out blackness that you might feel safe. Does not fear arise after you’ve stolen, taken, raped, killed? Is it not that which you see in the mirror that you fear? Black-ness like Brown-ness like Life-ness, is simply the Is-ness of |C|reation. Fear not for God is with you, right?, yet you deny God seven times seven choosing instead to destroy as though possessed by the other. What appears inside your eyes when your head hits the pillow? Nightmares appear real. How have you been able to sleep so soundly when you’ve taken for so long? You have slaughtered so many. You have chosen darkness over the light. What then becomes? We watch and we see, and as our eyes see inside their watching we stand with grace knowing the truth of who we are, a truth that across generations and time and space has always remained: Our lives will never be extinguished. Like a Phoenix we will rise again and again, because wherever we are has life breathed upon us. All lives matter. Our lives matter. Black lives matter.
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.
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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.
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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.
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I hear you. I have heard you. I listen that I might come to know.
Breathe on me.
The breath of you is everything that reminds me again of truth.
Nothing more exists there within when knowing reveals truth, and I listen.
Even without words have you revealed to me the secrets. I still have the scrolls. |Within| have I read. I receive you fully. I receive myself. It is there that you affect me. Moved always to tears.
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I have written words and yet cannot find them on paper. Blank pages of empty space sending messages in parables. This is how we find our way. This is the place atop which we place our feet moving through time and space. Who knows when the knowing has yet to be revealed? Within. I’ve met the answers there. I’ve tasted the fullness of Divinity and hungered no more. Oneness. This is the way of awakening. We sit there under trees of shade that the light threatens not those who cannot see. Compassion. We move with ease and flow; grace holds the hand of the one quiet enough to remain a beginner. The expert has fallen, no longer able to walk on water. Disconnected. Contrast calls him, tugs at his sleeve until tattered enough to listen to repair. I am here. I have always been here. See me.
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I have stood there at the door and knocked. It has opened time and time again that my knocking not be in vain. I turn toward you always that I might see. The existence of truth I have found in the pages of my inner. Oneness. I thirst for you, a longing that is satisfied only when my eyes are set upon you. Within. I go there. That is the place of solace, of comfort. You whisper that I have always known. Truth. Yet it is the stepping away that reminds me. Contrast. I am called always to return, so I stand here again at the door, knocking.
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