Our awareness of God is a syntax or the silence in which our souls mingle with the divine, in which the ineffable in us communes with the ineffable beyond us. It is the afterglow of years in which soul and sky are silent together, the outgrowth of accumulated certainty of the abundant, never-ending presence of the divine. All we need to do is to let the insight be and to listen to the soul's recessed certainty of its being a parenthesis in the immense script of God's eternal speech.
Regards to the day, the great long day
That can't be hoarded, good or ill.
What breathes in us likely means us well.
We rise up from an earthly root
To seek the blossom of the heart.
What breathes in us likely means us well.
We are a voice impelled to tell
Where the joining of sound and silence is.
We are the tides and their witnesses.
What breathes in us likely means us well.
Silence, a stilling of not only the voices outside but the inner voices, the roof brain chatter. Now, without the babble or words – inner and outer – I watch my mind, notice when a thought arises. I turn my attention inward, asking, "Who is thinking this thought?" As the mind turns to look, the thinker seems to disappear. But a focus comes from asking, a clearing a deepening. No "me," but a presence. Awareness.
