We whisper to you a lot, but mostly you do not hear us. I whispered to you yesterday and, for a moment, it seemed you looked at my voice through a washing-up bubble, but perhaps it was just the sunlight you saw, reflecting your own questions back into your lovely deep orange and blue and gold soul.
Mostly you never hear me, but how can you? Even the word ‘whisper’ does not capture the real quality of how we speak to you. Nor even does ‘speak’. This language of yours is but a shadow of a shadow of something that casts no shadow, but something else which is neither a ‘some’ nor a ‘thing’, but still rests upon you and presses (in a way) like sunlight upon water, or the urgency of a squirrel seeking food for its winter store.
Even your finest poetry (and in that only the spaces between the words and a little of the dance in the sound) rises only to the lowest foothills of how we speak to you in every moment you are awake, asleep or in the twilight in between (where we take your hands of light and dance with you as with children on May Day).
I whisper to you and you do not hear. Yet even your not hearing is a kind of listening, or you sometimes catch a breath of the echo and this breath is sometimes love enough for your next clumsy step. I love your clumsiness, it is something that eludes us. Isn’t it strange, that on the few occasions when you try to reach for me in your heart-wishes, I look at my light and see it clothed in the feathers of doves or swans and in those moments I know that you, who walks as if blind, can also remake us with an earth-breath of your own. White feathers all over our backs, born from a heavy thought that defeats the gravity that holds you to your story!
I blew upon your sleeping tears last night and our connection was suddenly strong as you dreamed yourself into higher places, wrapped in the pictures of water and rainbow dresses in a masquerade ball of friends and strangers. Suddenly you saw me and I saw you through human eyes and I knew what it might be to be free.
You see, we are not free like, you, and you rarely use the freedom that was given to you so full of the memory of gravity are you. But now we met and bowed low before each other. You saw your tears in my eyes and saw each tear as a star formed in a constellation which reminded you of your birth, and the time before where we fashioned together your tale, with all its winding paths and moments of decision. The child was your choice, the storm was ours, and the song of healing was mine, though nothing is ever truly mine that does not belong to all.
We laughed at the science you weaved into the cloth of mystery and then watched together as each thread fell into matter and became a landscape of years, lit by the child’s own miraculous patterning.
And these tears under moonlight, I collected each one, to add to the others. Now there are nearly enough and soon, at your call, I will pour them down and you’ll lift him up in your arms and you’ll swim with him through the years, your hands dancing together, joined with the flow of other souls who are drawn to this new river you made at the dawn of a universe which came into being when you took your first free steps into my land, and let gravity go its own way.
We can come down only so far, but now you can walk with us and, at the same time, walk in the places forbidden to us. We are so curious and sometimes you share with us a little of the feeling of feet upon earth. There is one tale told of a future where we can walk with you, for you will bring to us the secret and, with that, the permission of ‘as above, so below.’
Tonight though, I cried a little with you. This is not an easy thing for one of us to do, and it always makes a new future. I have a little mischief in me from stories past, and my light shimmered in a way that you might call laughter. Your tears are a thing of beauty because the story you have made will end well, though you feel this aeon’s chapter seems filled only with shadow.
I am whispering again now. Do you hear me? Listen for the change in the wind, the wind you can feel on your face if you step into the air outside. Leave a window open tonight and you’ll hear my song and I’ll try to find you in a dream. Your child is safely in your spirit arms and I hold you in mine, even as I am held – this is my whisper. He is made from your light, and your light interweaves with mine, and mine was born of your history and your future which is destined to end well. I love the feathers your laughter adorns me with and I offer you now this whisper of purest love to calm your fears and ease your heaviest cares.
I am the warmth which heals your pain,
I am your cooling summer rain.
Hear my whisper.