Another whisping reality flowed into my conscious awareness last night. Whether you take it as a dream, a vision, a retelling, or an akashic record reading – what could ever be the difference? A gift was given and received and it added air beneath my soaring wings, boosting me even higher. I want to share it with you to give you a boost. I want our boosts to make eddies of swirling drifts to catch everyone’s feathers and pull us all higher. Let’s fly.
A little boy had found two salamanders. He invited them out of the muddy water and onto his hands and they came to sit upon him. He understood communication beyond words, between species. His little mind was blown. Entire universes of possibility lit up his vision and imagination of what could be, with just this tiny interaction. His whole life changed. His soul perked into quickness and flowed to him a million little inspirations. The salamanders were yin and yang, one fire, one coal. One red, one black; both offering the same connection, but with different flavors and flares. The little boy ran back home in ecstatic joy to share the discoveries. His father and brother would see the possibility of communication beyond words, of bonds beyond species, of truths beyond the village’s knowledge. When his bounding form returned home, his father told him to get his muddy, filthy friends out of the house. He exiled him from the space. He told him he could have no dinner, as filthy as he was. He told him to return his friends to their dim, forest pond.
Hearts across many timelines broke and shut down. A million possibilities were extinguished. The little boy left in tears, not understanding how someone could so casually dismiss eternity.
I saw him, my little brother, another dream and spark put out by my overbearing, practical, seasoned father. I snuck out between prepping for dinner. I found my little brother at the edges of town, battling with returning his new friends and losing them forever. Battling an army of adulthood and tradition and drudgery of human life holding his little soul down. I ran to him and whispered to him, “A friend found is a friend forever, let them go home, you can visit them every day and no one else has to understand. You will always understand.”
His little heart glowed to know a little secret of life, a growing bond between us, but most importantly, that his treasure would not be lost to time…not in this flow each one of us can find.
A shift and flow carries me to another place and time flow to see another little boy. This time he has a pot. A clay pot found under hundreds of years of time collapsed upon a lost culture. A treasure. His mind explodes to understand what may be gone forever, what may have been forgotten, what could be even more grand and advanced than anyone had ever wondered. A thousand synapses fire to create visions of what had never been dreamed. He ran back home to show his family, in desperate fire that burns his eyes wide and heart pumping hard. He bursts in to share the find and babble about the implications. His father looks at him, grabs the pot, and says, “This doesn’t feed us, does it?” He drops it casually on the table to dismiss it, a piece breaks. He is exiled from the conversation, the past and the future at once. His chest falls, his hopes dash. A billion possibilities extinguished. The little boy left in tears, not understanding how someone could so casually dismiss eternity.
I saw him, my little cousin, another dream and spark put out by an overbearing, practical, seasoned uncle. I snuck the pot pieces into my cubby. I worked the pieces back together in secret. I placed the pot in a spot only he would find, walking about the rocky hills, one day and came out as he found it to say, “A treasure found is found forever, let it be broken or whole, you can find more evidence and someday someone will understand. You will always know.”
A burst of movement pops me into another place and time-flow to see another little boy. This time he is baking cookies. He knows every ingredient’s source and quality. He has studied the temperatures and chemistries of the process. He savors every moment and pours his heart into the otherwise insignificant creation because he knows the secret ingredient changes hearts and lives and lifts people up in ways words and gestures cannot. This is sacred work. He enters himself in a competition that only old women enter. His father mocks him and tells him he’s a sissy and a failure, a tiny man would think so, never having dreamed at all and only having hid. The little boy struggles against the convention of only old women entering the competition, he struggles to understand marketing and presentation when it is only the substance of love in cookie form that he truly wants to share. He comes in third. It is a success but he knows no one saw and felt the truth: that the cookie’s look never mattered, only its message. A silly thing, to think cookies could matter. A trillion possibilities extinguished. The little boy holds back tears, not understanding how everyone could so casually dismiss eternity.
I see him after, attempting to sell at least a few cookies to get reimbursement for all he’d put into the cookies, thinking perhaps he’d give it up finally and do as his father instructed and get a real hobby and life. I bought every cookie he had. When he asked why in wonder at my choice, I told him, “I’ve got a lot of people to save and this is just the soul medicine they need.” He shed a single tear to see that someone understood, that his treasure had been discovered and seen and now might be forever, that he could let it be good enough, that some people understood. Now, he would always know.
Coming back home, to this when and where, I see him in a different form, but with the same heart and soul. I understand why my love for him is nearly inexplicable, ineffable. I see how I’ve watched and waited for moments when he might otherwise fall forever, on a path of loss, and blown in at exactly the right moment to lift him back up again, setting him on a drift that may carry him far beyond what I could ever see. I hope it is enough.
We can look around and see those who have caught us falling, set us back aright, given us a flow of air to ride upon until we catch a larger current. Thank god for the flows shared by each and every soul to keep the drift cycling upward, to keep us flying higher.
Share your current even if it is through the flapping of your wings and the eddies you leave behind as you fly. Share your breath and blow into the sails of those flying past. We cycle, around and around and around, we see some of the same souls over and over again, if we are lucky, and we all uplift one another to continue ever upward. Thank you for sharing your flow, I promise to keep sharing mine.
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