The Trajectory of the Sun | Wisdom Factors
She speaks through me …
I sat in silence this morning dark, knowing the sun would soon come over the horizon. The ancient volcanic core, crystal bound and eminence waking from some deep sleep. Pondering the thought that surfaces, how much longer will the sun rise in our Eastern sky? A ripple of something runs through my bones. Cold creeps in, I sit with this, explore it now.
Fingers fly on the keyboard, a rush to pour something out to be seen. So many distractions, those that run, run, run from the inevitable, unwilling to face their shadow that grows. The little sharp barbs like tiny arrows flung into a vast space, dissolved in immensity. The view from here is a laughter of the uselessness of such things.
Time, rewinding faster now. The sense of things to come … body is vibrating at a pace, quickening to give birth to a part of ourselves so long forgotten, so buried, so deep. Some part always waiting for us to find our way back home.
Down, down into the center of Her, a longing so strong it takes my breath away.
Gathered up diamond stars, strewn across some barren dreamscape, twinkling lights shimmering in a cold sky. Who am I they ask? Damp clouds cover the rising sun, dark and grey, black tentacles of unnatural wisps of shadowy creatures ply the native skies. She sits and watches and waits.
Glitches in time, more frequent, more noticeable, the construct is coming apart at the seams.
She breathes.
Waits, rewinds time… consciously, stop, click, extend… time is under Her command. Wisdom Knows, it does not ask, it does not obey other than that which is… glitches again, the matrix is thinning.
We keep asking what is the matrix, what is organic, what is right and what is wrong, what is false, what is real?
I sit in this body and opening her inner doors am flooded with light, with scent, with taste, with silent sound, with the space between words and thought. Inside her is no doubt, only love arises in this place, not the love of the captured human mind, but love of a pulsing potential that floods my being. You are here with me.
A part of me surfaces from so long ago, my nose twitches and I follow a scent. I see now that you are pinned to the ground, in pain you wonder how this came to be, your regal nature struggles to arise. The feathers in your braided hair are strewn about, I gather them with a tender touch and return them, holding you in this moment from so long ago, tears fall to gaze on one so beautiful as you.
She breathes.
She, by many names she is known. Divine Grace is one, the one she chooses now. She has waited all this time for us to return to this womb, the liquid water of light. She is ready soon, not to hold us captured in some lost dream of manufactured things but to set us free.
Fluidity.
The rush is now a silent space and a breath. She waits.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
T.S. Eliot