Freeing Shadows

               What is the difference between knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the sea and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. 

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I sang and chanted the Knowing of Love, being Love and giving Love. In the wind I heard a whisper and thought it only the sound of my feet slipping on the rocks. But I knew the voice. I was walking into the wind. It began as a whisper. Grew quietly into a cry. “I am unloved. I am not loveable. I will never be good enough for anyone or anything.” I knew the voice and the 237 seasons that had shaped the words and then silenced them. Even the Knowing had, in some ways, silenced the voice but always knew it was there.

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. And as I walked I listened as the voice became stronger lengthening my stride up the hills. As I walked with Knowing I sat the voice free to cry, to yell, to fly. I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. The voice, the silent fear flew ahead, soared above and hung like a bird in the sky, so effortless, suspended in time. I found the Knowing and my heart chuckling softly as we walked into the wind. Even shadows deserve to be free.

               What is the difference between Knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the se and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. The space where no voice is silenced. The space where you walk into the wind with Knowing, watch feeling soar and fly no longer afraid. The space where feeling and Knowing become trust. 

Shadow Thread

The morning sun painted a whisper, 'Look and tell me what you see.'  My mind told my eyes a mountain they saw, just like the mountain in the photograph above.  My eyes whispered back, 'no, both are flat, touch them and you can see.'  My little mind sighed.

The mind can create realities from shadows, seeing textures and towering mountains where there is only a flat painted wall.  It is not wrong, bad, or even misguided. She simply reflects and causes shadows to come to life, calling them real, as they cast their image on an painted wall.

The sky is now blue, the sun has moved on and there is naught but the wall.  But I find my eyes still turning my head to the space where mountains were framed in a walled window of light.  I had a thought, a thread, when I began, but like the shadowed mountains, it has gone. I am simple and not so wise.  I only know no matter what the eyes, mine or others, think they see, no matter what the mind creates from the vision of eyes, no matter all else, the truth within, the whisper of Life, knows the touch of the mountain was real.