Stepping in without the dictate of others has given me the freedom to lie down at the water’s edge and rest. It’s here, in this still place, my body lays down, gentle water creeping toward me in the rising of the tide. It approaches slowly, softly until contact is made. My body senses its yearning to wash me clean; refresh me. Not in a religious sense. It doesn’t view me as dirty; it feels me receptive. It’s a mother’s gentle kiss, a lovers first touch. It's a subtle leaning in of one hesitant to approach without invitation. The water begins lapping over me in a slow ascent until it hears the undeniable whisper of yes. It crests the curve of my body and spills over, covering me in vibrant warmth. Permission is granted. It sweeps over me again and again, washing me clean. It is at once offering and invite, in a cyclical movement of God.
Words and beliefs cannot attach themselves to it because it lives in experience; without the chains of language locking it to a shape it cannot sustain. A shape it chooses not to own, although unopposed to anything touching or desiring it. Fixed is not its nature; it must bend with the movement of itself, to ensure it’s fluidity in becoming.
Is Spirit this experience washing over me? Is this the engine of Christ, the wind it rides on; the wave that carries it - its energy and source of movement? The essence of it is like a gift; as that contained and held in frankincense and myrrh. It is a humble presence welcoming me; willing to bridge the distance and find me on this shore far from home.
Incarnation occurs in these moments. Living in this vastness of space and time; this awareness of God turns highly concentrated, and manifests as ordinary matter - so it is held sharply in view and seen. We name these moments differently. Many do not characterize this as God. Yet, the experience asks me to name it; and I want to identify it. It resists gently. It is content to avoid the subtle, unconscious expectations the word God conjures up of late. A mystic housed in a human psyche can find it is cheated by illusions and self-created imagery that oppresses, instead of the free and fluid leaning in to this friendly, constant haunting.
The steady rhythm of ten drums vibrate through me, leaving me wondering if I am the drum itself. The reverberations called to something within crying out to be seen, something hidden so deep it could barely lift its head far enough to be noticed by my conscious mind. It called me to it, but only this collective vibrating rhythm could shake and stir it awake. These primal memories live far in our depths, and don’t know the language of today's world. They are accessed through doors of ancient practice and rituals that meet them where, and as, they are.
Until next time, peace to your house,