Quiet Memories

I think that anyone who contemplates the intrinsic mysteriousness of life has in their metaphorical suitcase an incident or memory that is, for them, the quintessential moment of connection with something greater than "me". Maybe that memory isn't infallible, but I'd like to think that it is the use to which we put our memories that is important, not the scribe-like quality we might hope that memory could have. I don't think I can link to the post that elicited these thoughts (as it's on a friend's Facebook page) and in the interest of maintaining her privacy, I'm not going to share her name here. The core of her piece that moved me to words is a belief she holds that she is destined, as it were, for something larger than even the amazing accomplishments she's already achieved - something greater than her single self in which she will take part and thereby improve by giving that most precious and abundant resource: love.

I've worked hard on a number of occasions to give voice to a similar feeling I've had for as long as I can recall. Perhaps it's become embellished in my mind, but I consider that serendipitous - that the idea, feeling, compulsion, drive has a life of its own which keeps it growing toward manifestation. That's a good an explanation of any that Spirit / Unity / God works in our lives without our having to be consciously aware of the connective force going about its business.

When I give myself over to stillness and quiet the thoughts that race unceasingly through my overcrowded cranium, it is very easy to sense that there's a larger whole of which I am a part and which simultaneously is a sum greater than its constituent parts. When I allow that sense to fill me up, push out the extraneous bits, "defrag my hard drive", I feel peace. The same peace I had as a child, standing in a newly mown field adjacent to our school playground, gathering up the dead, dried grass to make a bird's nest. What I couldn't have known then but see clearly now is that I was learning about cycles of nature: the death of the grass gave in turn a home for the birds in which they could raise their young. Just a small part of a large cycle, but holding the nest in my hands, I could feel the remnant life of the grass, clearly see it connect with the life inside myself. I could imagine myself a cat creeping through the tall grass, stalking the bird making its nest. I could imagine myself the bird, doing birdy things, soaring through the air, and gathering worms for my cheeping babies. All of which made re-entering the school building at recess end an endeavor of re-entering my physical body, taking back on the heavier feeling of walking about in this corporeal form. I would have been about 9 or 10 years old at the time yet I can recall enough scraps to reconstruct a beautiful picture that holds meaning for me now, 25 years later.

I've never lost that ability to set myself loose. Indeed, I've endured a fair bit of good-natured ribbing for being in my "own little world". I don't mind, and I never will mind - it is when I'm in my own little world that I feel most complete and connected to all elements of creation.