I don’t really do flowery stuff.
I don’t do gory or cruel stuff either, of course, but I love dirty and crooked and how odd things can be sort of bent to become even more beautiful in their oddity.
Bouquets are lovely but I’d rather collect the shadows if I could.
I like the wet peace in the dark. I like the cool quiet in the stillness. I tend to feel like where the crowd is is the beginning of the end of a thing but I couldn’t really tell you why.
So I like to go another way; the way things haven’t gone yet. Just to see how it might look there and what comes with me or falls off.
I contemplate a lot of heavy stuff (maybe it’s mystical, maybe it’s idealistic – it likely depends who you ask and their choice of perspective that day) that I don’t always know how to talk about or express out loud.
Or on paper.
Sometimes when I’m inside a really delicious conversation I pause for just long enough that it feels long, so I can savor the energy that extends between my soul and the love-lit soul who is holding space with me.
Some people like it.
Some people prefer short.
The other night I had a vision so clear I could grab it. A sleek black bird was still on a wire. I stood looking up at him when, in a perfect sharp turn, he looked straight down at me before flicking up his wings for the split beat of an instant.
In the flash, I could see radiance glowing full inside of him so bright it dazzled my whole being, skeleton and all. His silent message plain as night: that we are all light beings, no matter how shrouded.
His razor dark eyes telling me to trust what I know is the truth beyond appearances. That my adoration for the shadows is drawn from the same place as my affection for the Light.
Lately, when I look at people I can see their glow. I can feel their electricity and hold their spirit in what feels like my own silken, invisible hands. I engage with what feels like a penetrating light, a warmth, that threads together our beings and reminds me that we are the same.
It feels like home.
I love words that cut across the boring stuff most people say. I’d rather be silent with the elegance of emptiness than fill in the gaps with the gummy thickness of useless speak.
I don’t see the point.
Maybe these are some of the reasons I crave the mystical but hesitate to talk about it. Because I don’t want to talk about the Eternal in the ways that many people do.
I don’t want it to have to be pristine or grandiose in a way that makes me want to shut down. There’s a way about spirituality that is so human, so damn sexy, so fully pulsing that I can tell when I’m losing touch with it inside.
I can feel the blankness in forgetting the Energy.
Even when you’re numb you know you aren’t feeling.
I can’t stand the thought of writing about my spiritual experience in a way that sounds lofty or haughty or disconnected. I fear that sharing my journey might sever me from other people because I don’t say the right thing or because they don’t understand my process.
Often I ask myself, Who am I to do this?
The thing is though, people might not understand. People might not like that sometimes I just really need to curse to get my loving message across in the way that feels most real to me.
It might not be cool with some people that I refuse to refer to the Divine as male (or female) because that only makes me feel farther away from Love.
It might surprise or confuse or fluster some people that I have had meditation sessions that are more stimulating and fulfilling than sex. It might flip some people out that I truly believe we are not bodies but actual, real, living, burning beings of light capable of creating miracles.
In fact, it might piss some people off that I would dare claim to be a teacher of something as magnificent as our divinity when I’m just a person who gets scared and feels out of place and questions her own strength even as she’s calling it forward.
All of these things may indeed be true – that I could be judged or questioned or deemed unworthy to do the work of love.
It may be even more true that I judge myself in ways much more sordid and harsh than anyone else could ever judge me.
“This is a manual for the teachers of God. They are not perfect or they would not be here.”
But what else can we do, angels? If we crooked little mangled-up glories don’t share the messages of love and peace and inner light – who will? If we do not seek to heal ourselves who will heal us? Who are we waiting for to do this work in the world? In ourselves?
You and I, beloved, we are all we have. Just we the conflicted wild creatures seeking out a Way and lighting the light as only we know how.
“Yet it is their mission to become perfect here, and so they teach perfection over and over, in many ways, until they have learned it. And then they are seen no more, although their thoughts remain a source of strength and truth forever. Who are they?”
They are us. The teachers of love are simply we who seek to demonstrate it. Not because we fit some mold or say all the right things or carry a particular title or license or badge.
I don’t really dig flowery stuff.
I don’t really like overly-sweet-talking anything and sometimes I curse and I don’t want to be held to any one religion or philosophy or idea or rule. I’m certain about a lot things, my faith runs deep as caverns, and I’m still mixed up about a lot of things.
Maybe it will have to be enough to speak about Love honestly, the way it reveals itself to me as I go along.
Quietly collecting shadows.
~ ~ ~
P.S. I have a beautiful guided meditation album coming out soon. Sign up to my mailing list at the top of this page so I can be sure to send you a track for free on release day. :)