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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There are voices dancing without words.
There are words dancing without voices.
It beckons always in the hours wee.
Midnight tells the story.
We wake then only to listen.
This isn’t the first time the words came calling inside the movement of dance.
Breathe the breath of flow.
What does it feel like to release? To let go? To exhale grasping that meditation might find you?
What does it feel like to allow? To be receptive? To expose yourself to yourself in order to be revealed?
That is the journey called Way. What of the way leads you there always to the center where the voices can be seen in the distance, dancing? You have twirled inside of parables written only that the seeker might find. What have you sought?
Go there, within, and see the colors. They fade only in times when what is an illusion makes you believe them to be real.
Uphill is the climb of the resistant. What of the stronghold lures you further along the climb when dis-ease has tapped your shoulder, and the strain has weakened you?
It is when you turn toward that you free yourself from…
May the way be made clear and the feet of you move in the direction of the Way.
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