An Ancient Gate
A deeper resistance truly happens in the flesh and blood and heart of humanity, in the forest and the high deserts, in the oceanic tides and in the mountains of our beingness, and how it is that we are loving each other every single day.
To love in this time means to bear witness to the disintegration, to the mind of madness at work, to the suffering and to the sorrow, and to choose this flesh and bone and blood in the morning hours, and through the day into the night as our life depends upon it. It means having the difficult conversations, moving through the anger without squelching its vital life force, metabolizing the fear and bolstering the courage that it takes to activate the human heart and hands in the center of it all, inside of the lies and the illusions and the delusions that so many choose to call “truth”.
I will be asking myself how deep the rabbit hole goes for the rest of my days. It is a worthy question, and I know enough to understand that the answers are stranger than we might ever imagine. But perhaps there is an even deeper question, a doorway into the unseen as old as time itself, and that when we enter through it, a wider knowing ensues, a greater commitment to the wave of life, a more sacred honoring of all that is, even the darkness that is being revealed to us in this time of revelation. Everything serves its purpose.
Perhaps this rabbit hole does not just take us down into the depths of the earth and to the despair that is present there, but conjoins with the canopy of the sky, like a tree moving both up and down simultaneously understanding that we are children of the earth, and cosmos both.
Perhaps it takes us not on a journey of the mind, but into the depths of soul language and frequency, where the truth is known in the caress of a hand, the warm breeze at midnight, the unfolding of a flower, the wonder of childhood, the dream of dreams that was gifted to each of us, the pearl still threaded around the nape of the neck.
Are we still humble enough to know what this means?
Do we honor the great mystery enough to listen to its song, muted as it has been in this age?
Do we still posses the wonder of a child in the face of so much suffering, and are we willing to renew the hymn?
The song is swelling for those with the ears to hear, calling for us to return to the seat of the soul in order to decipher its messages.
Our lives are meant to be lived.
