“May our heart’s garden of awakening bloom with hundreds of flowers.”
~Thich Nhat Hanh, Buddhist Monk, Author & Peace Activist
I have heard the calling. It made no sound except perhaps a swish of warm air through the core of my being. But nonetheless, I heard it.
It didn’t say my name, for my soul is nameless. But it was meant for me, as sure as birds were meant for the air.
Listening. I had quieted myself. Deliberately. I had released the struggle and simply sat. For years. But the song that I knew was there remained elusive.
I languished, wallowing in my egoism. And the loud clatter sank back in. It deafened my soul.
Then…
Then I heard it! It was silently beautiful, my soul song. The universe within, humming like a waterfall. Pulsing. The heart of love.
And I connected to it. I embraced my uniqueness without a qualm.
I am the voice of eternity. By mouth and pen. By my actions. I tell the stories of ancient truths.
The calling sang to me. It whispered as well. It’s loving guidance pouring upon my open mind.
And now I sing. I sing to the seekers. The listeners.
I am pouring myself into a healing. Healing one gentle spirit at a time. With acceptance and free will.
I embrace the lonely path, enlightened for my journey.
I am strengthened. By the touch of divine creation.
I will relinquish self-doubt. It is returned to the Source.
I know myself. The conduit. Come and speak to me. Let your positive light pour through me. I am willing to share.
I no longer take comfort in waste. I am comforted by self-restraint. And you will be too. I live closer to my Mother planet. I am unprocessed and wise. Natural woman.
I will live wild. Live free. Unburdened. For fear is fruitless. Peace. Joy shall be the way.
Let me be the seed. A future bright with community. Self love. The seedling and the flower.
May the prosperous fountain overflow. Leaving behind all need. Thankful. With gratitude, I share. My spirit, my truth, my bounty.
Entwined and clasped. Hand me your hand. We sing.
And it calls to you. The Oneness. Your heart beating for Source. The race never was.
A breeze whistling, a brook trickling. You have been called.
Begin now.
