Presence

 Write every day. What sings today? The desert sings. The clouds sing. Movement. My body. The closeness I feel with The Divine when allowing my being to be fully swallowed by the magnificence of each of these things.

With every sense I get to feel fully alive. I close my eyes and see the red dust of the desert kicked up by the wind where it hovers over a deep red earth. A depth that has seen and felt many stories take place above it. What does the desert know? It knows something, it knows everything, and it holds it there in it's red clay and rock. It knows it so well, that seeing and touching it actually bring you into it. You don't know what the earth knows, but your body is affected by it. When you touch it, your soul take a piece of it's history. You become the past, and the present, and future. What divinity.

I feel like I need the desert. Why do I need it. I don't want to stay there, or live there. I want to just be there. Yes, I want to play there, and boy there is so much to play. But maybe the way the desert just lets you be there is what makes the desert such a special and mysterious and magnificent place. Within this vast open place is an ocean of presence. 

When you're season is Waiting, presence can be hard.

 I have seen the depths of the human soul. The space of the dying is like no other. The beloved stand around with their eyes and their chests and their mouths oozing with tenderness that pierces the dense atmosphere around them. Entering such a space is holy, and soft, and wonderfully sad.

Wonderfully sad, because this dimension can't be practiced, experienced, expected, or re-visted. This is a once in a lifetime moment of the closest we will come to two worlds touching: the now, and the after. No matter what you believe in these moments, the spiritual thicket grows so deep and so dense when the dying begins her journey. It's deep and it's dense so you must slow down, you must watch, and you must wait. When you do this you must also listen, and touch, and smell, and cry. 

I remember every dying hand I've held, and every dying face I've stroked. If they only knew that a part of them has crawled into my tender heart. If they only knew that every tear I shed holds a little part of them. If they only knew that I am only an incomplete and imperfect vessel of God's great and beautiful tenderness towards them. If they only knew how honored I feel to walk a part of that final journey with them, to a holy ground where I get to touch the fingertips of my Lord. 

In these moments I think the depths of our souls know no limits. A journey with an end, that shows the limitless of our souls. What a beautiful and holy ground.