This morning, I felt it. As I sometimes do. I had risen before I wanted—in the service of a dog across town whom I adore--and walked out my front door to a life that loved me.
Because there was a quiet peace in the world. And a cool stillness. And I paused on my porch while my soul connected to the place of it’s true home, devoid of the white noise of people and air conditioners and cars and flurry and chaos. And I stood there as the sun rested in self-assured imminence behind mountains which stand guard like new parents, and remind me at every turn that nature—that The Earth—will impassively stand in non-judgment of our human drama and flaws until we either save ourselves or perish.
And the indifference of it didn’t make me feel small; it made me feel reverent.
And some call the feeling “Source.” Because to use “God” has become, at once, generic and engorged, and laden with anthropomorphic religious fervor that keeps our appreciation of such tethered to the limitations of the five senses. And “source” is such a fine word, holding the potential to rewind our consciousness to a now misted-over time of impeccable oneness, where—like string theory—we have known ourselves to be part of an invisible network of connections--ten dimensions of space—even though our conscious mind can only really understand and perceive three.
It is the feeling of “Other,” or “All That Is” or, simply, the acknowledgment of a higher intelligence, and the understanding of the still, quiet steady-state of our soul’s origin in which all events make cosmic sense. Or will, given enough time. In which we can pause and remember in a light, evening breeze--as the invisible Earthly force blows gently across our face and body--that unseen doesn’t mean non-existent.
And I stood on my porch this morning--this lovely, exquisite morning which I can never re-live and can never get back--and felt as one with Source, and thanked the world with authentic joy for letting me be part of it.
Because there is such hardship in this life. Just two weeks ago, I was laying on the couch, exhausted, and unable to process thoughts, and feeling certain of impending doom. I was sick. And frightened. And unsure why this hardship had befallen me and whether I would ever feel better.
And this morning I was healthy, and happy and filled with gratitude. And in love with this world and my experience within it.
And it isn’t a miracle. Not in the proper sense. Not when set within the white noise of our lives. The common, the rush, and the constant distractions from ourselves and our experience in the current moment.
But in the quiet of the world and of the mind; where definitions expand and “God” becomes “Source” and 3 dimensions become 10, and the evolution of what’s possible changes when our ideas become experience, it rests inside me amid gratitude, and mountains, that--in a life of hardship--there are threads of invisible harmony ready to embrace a quiet mind.
And, for that, it felt like a miracle.
For, this morning, even the clouds reflected back my inner peace. And, in the shadow of hardship, my own consciousness had stilled to a point where I could feel—in the quiet coolness, awaiting that imminent sun—that there will always be peace to be had.