I lived near the Spanish Peaks (Wahatoya: Breasts of the Earth - South Central Colorado) from 2005 to 2013. The Native Americans of the region would drop their weapons, calling temporary truce when traversing these sacred Lands. Its message to me is to nurture self and others, without enabling them and giving my power away to any person, thought, belief, religion, political affiliation, spiritual practice, science, technology or institution. Resonating with any of these can be guided by Spirit and be beneficial. But beware anyone or anything that dismisses or diminishes your divine connection to Source, your personal sovereignty or asks for your Power. Love won't ask for it.
I wonder if my twin sister and I had a similar conversation in the womb?
Life After Birth Parable – Wayne Dyer
In a mother’s womb were two babies. One asked the other: “Do you believe in life after delivery?” The other replied, “Why, of course. There has to be something after delivery. Maybe we are here to prepare ourselves for what we will be later.”
“Nonsense” said the first. “There is no life after delivery. What kind of life would that be?”
The second said, “I don’t know, but there will be more light than here. Maybe we will walk with our legs and eat from our mouths. Maybe we will have other senses that we can’t understand now.”
The first replied, “That is absurd. Walking is impossible. And eating with our mouths? Ridiculous! The umbilical cord supplies nutrition and everything we need. But the umbilical cord is so short. Life after delivery is to be logically excluded.”
The second insisted, “Well I think there is something and maybe it’s different than it is here. Maybe we won’t need this physical cord anymore.”
The first replied, “Nonsense. And moreover if there is life, then why has no one has ever come back from there? Delivery is the end of life, and in the after-delivery there is nothing but darkness and silence and oblivion. It takes us nowhere.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the second, “but certainly we will meet Mother and she will take care of us.”
The first replied “Mother? You actually believe in Mother? That’s laughable. If Mother exists then where is She now?”
The second said, “She is all around us. We are surrounded by her. We are of Her. It is in Her that we live. Without Her this world would not and could not exist.”
Said the first: “Well I don’t see Her, so it is only logical that She doesn’t exist.”
To which the second replied, “Sometimes, when you’re in silence and you focus and you really listen, you can perceive Her presence, and you can hear Her loving voice, calling down from above.”
-it happened again this morning – the feeling came back – it woke me up at dawn – it wasn’t a dream – it was so very real – so real
– I swear
– it was very subtle at first
– but the feeling grew – and grew – and grew
– suddenly every atom inside of me was on fire
– and my soul was scratching on my skin
– and I couldn’t ignore it anymore
– I had no choice – had to answer it
– the call
– the invitational into mystery
– the lure of the divine
– the sacred song of creation
At first was the gentlest of tugs deep inside of me. Like my heart was a kite and something was carefully pulling on its strings to get me stand up from my chair and walk outside.
I didn’t know where I was being pulled to.
I just knew I had to follow the invisible thread that was towing me outside under the untamed sun.
And as soon as my bare feet hit the grass I knew what was happening- it was clear why I was being drawn outside.
– I was being asked to be a witness.
– A witness to a miracle.
– A miracle that remade me.
I’ll do my best to explain. Please take my hand so it will stop shaking. I need you to believe me.
There I was outside.
I was watching these little angels who were disguised as golden beams of Easter sunlight while they danced through the treetops.
They were floating from elm to elm and were kissing each branch to wake them up.
I watched it happen. I swear.
With their voices of dawn these glowing angels whispered to the heart of each tree the same exact poem –
“Winter has fallen. The night has passed. Everything that died is coming back. Come awake. Come awake. Let me swirl through your outstretched arms. Feel my embrace of heat and hope. Please, come back. We need you.”
The morning lights serenaded each tree. Every single tree had their intimate moment with first light. No tree was forgotten by the growing dawn.
It was part formal ritual.
And part wild bonfire dance.
Yet all divine.
Suddenly I could hear it.
The trees began to creak and groan back to life. Their bark hardened. The buds pushed through.
Their branches stiffened. Their songbirds returned.
One burst of light
touching a tree
and everything came back to life.
That’s when I started to weep. No, not cry. Weep.
I had made a breakthrough as I stood with naked toes on my front lawn
The relationship between the light and trees and their masterclass on the subject of resurrection.
I’m so sorry that
I never noticed
It sooner.
It was complete magic
– and miracle
– and mystery
I finally decided
that God must be real
because there were
so many angels
playing in
the all of the trees.
During this, our springtime of coming back to ourselves,
you might find me staring into the smalls gaps
between the branches of a tree.
Don’t fret.
I’m just falling in love
with the whisper that a lonely
tree makes when it feels
love again.
Now I’m waiting for my turn
to feel one single burst of light – of my own
– on my face
because because because
I know that
it will change everything.
I am holding my breath
so I can hear the dancing angels
of burning holy light to reach me
– to bathe me – to swaddle me
– to whisper their ancient poem to me:
“Winter has fallen. The night has passed. Everything that died is coming back. Come awake. Come awake. Let me swirl through your outstretched arms. Feel my embrace of heat and hope. Please, come back. We need you.”
I can feel it right now -the pull inside of me
-the tug – the invitation into glory – it’s happening. My new life has begun.
And even though I’m inside here with you now. A part of me outside again. On the front lawn. In my bare feet. Surrounded by raw sunlight.
I’m witnessing another miracle.
But this time the miracle isn’t for the trees.
It’s for me.
The light envelops me.
The songbirds return.
-my winter has fallen – my dark night has passed
– everything that died in me is reborn – I’m awake.
“As people are learning all over again in the modern world, when people who will not acknowledge their own woundedness are given power, they will make new wounds and possibly wound everyone because of their need to deny their own woundedness. The word heal means to cure and specifically to make whole. It turns out that being a whole person means we have to accept our vulnerable parts, and that we have to accept and learn to face our original inner wounds. For in this old, mythological understanding, the fateful event of being wounded early in life creates the need for a deep healing process that becomes the path of awakening for each person.
The path of the wounded healer leads to a connection to the deep self within, which is our connection to wholeness, which is the root of the human capacity to heal. There’s an old idea that says that in the same way that something greater than ourselves wounds us early on, something greater than ourselves seeks to awaken through the specific wounds we carry. In that sense, denying the inner wound means also denying the presence of the deep soul or the centering self, which holds the exact medicine we are looking for.
In some mythic stories, the wound inside a person is called the sacred affliction, or the holy wound. There’s another play on words in which the wound which can be seen as a hole, can also be seen as a holy element that secretly holds the natural antidote, the inner medicine that we also brought to life.
The wounded healer is ever wounded, and ever able to find ways of healing. It’s an archetypal condition. The point has never been to become perfect, or perfectly healed, or completely whole. The point has always been to become holy. That is to say, complete with our vulnerabilities and our wounds, because the wound becomes a womb from which we are intended to be reborn again and again. And that’s why the old saying was, the afflicted are holy.”
As I write this it is raining in Southern California. I hear the pitter-patter. I feel the wind sweep past me. My cat is licking my fingers as I type away. I am musing about the rarity of rain in So-Cal. So is this really happening? Is this real?
So what’s real?
Everything.
I’m tired of the dream thing. There are no dreams. There are no illusions. No hallucinations. No this is real. This is not.
What you experience is real. I don’t want to hear religious and spiritual narratives about this. I’ve heard them. I’ve believed them. Yes, I’ve made them real.
And then a nagging feeling jabbed into my ribs like how it feels when you are hugging a tree and the hug is of love but boy does that bark dig in and make you feel the texture of its reality in the realms of experience. Still, some believe experience is not real.
I have bought into the gurus, prophets, spiritual experts spouting that life is but a dream. It’s not real. It’s the source of all suffering….blah, blah, blah. Well, I guess that’s real for them. They make it real.
I am turning to my deepest feeling part of me. What do I know. No, what do I feel?
Spirit is feeling through all of life. Spirit grows this way by feeling into and through life itself. Spirit creates living dimensions in which to feel every infinite flavor it desires, so…curious…so delightfully curious to know, no, to feel the flavors and textures It can become.
The mind will capture spirit, tangling it into a web of dead thoughts. The mind is not needed to teach you to fly. We know how already, just waiting for the perfect moment to release gravity and soar. Don’t worship the mind. Let it fall away for it is the mind that gives the Soul’s power away. We made the mind real so show it what it does best. Let it set up computer programs to turn salt water to drinkable water, let it file your papers and do your taxes.
I would rather be sitting under a flock of trees than chanting away myself into the arms of an “enlightened master”. What? There is no Self, you chant? There is only the One? Look again. No, feel again. Spirit feels in plural. It feels in the We. We feel each other. We feel ourselves through each other. And yes, we can merge with each other and feel our truth as the One.
Do we write out our story lines before we are born? Do we plan possibilities like accidents and surprises? Do some jump in with a weak script? How do these questions make you feel? Yes you, beautiful Soul.
Question everything. We live in a world of smoke and mirrors. Nothing is as it seems. Sink into the driver’s seat of your heart. Feel out the truth of you. Feel out the truth of us.
Wahatoya Dreaming 