There is a little voice in the subconscious of our minds that speaks truth, but we drown out the gentle whispers before we learn the rhythm of who we are.

The Still, Small Voice

There are noises within us, whispers, gentle words that are almost incomprehensible. We may coin this little voice as self-doubt, distraction, or simply just the thoughts of being human. However, this still, small voice remains the guiding compass for our lives.

My inner voice and I have a love-hate relationship. We bicker back and forth, almost inevitably contradicting each other. The still small voice reminds me of what I truly desire from this life, while the rules that I have placed upon my very being keep me in shackles.

The voice reminds me of who I was created to be from Eden, a place where rules and the expectations of society were yet to exist. Through artwork and self-expression, I see a glimpse of what life was before corruption, a place where a mind was free and humans got lost in the awe of life itself. The voice within us grasps us in an instant, clears the fog, and brings us back the feeling before our plane lands in a new country that we have yet to explore.

The restoration of who we are begins with the acceptance that we already know the dreams that roll off our tongue in the whispered prayers before our head hits the pillow. There are rays of sun that shine through the clouds when we take out our earplugs and return to the gentleness of the voice that cradles us to sleep.

Running in Circles

“You are running out of time.” My chest is a balloon that has been inflated past the limits of the latex walls. My mind spins with the thought that time is slipping through the cracks of my fingers. Time is as fluid as water, but I cannot seem to grasp enough to sustain me.

There is a peace in knowing that we cannot construct time. We do not have control over time, or how much of it we are gifted while we are here on this earth. Why do we run from it? Why do we fear and live in regret when our timeline in not up to us.

“Not all projects take time, but they do take a lifetime.” ~ Rick Rubin

Our work here on earth is not bound by time limits. We make goals, develop habits, and engage deeply with all that we do to supplement the project that is life itself. An achievement is a brushstroke on the the canvas of our soul that leads to another brush stroke and another brush stroke.

There is never an end goal, because the end goal is simply life itself. The lights dim to a soft, yellow glow within me when I cease to allow the thousands of sneakers walking on a sidewalk to give me directions for where I am headed. We can rest with the reassurance that a calendar was created by man, but the seasons outside of us and within us can guide us to plant a seed or to sow the soil.

“Certainly, there is within each of us a self that is neither a child, nor a servant of the hours. It is a third self, occasional in some of us, tyrant in others. This self is out of love with the ordinary; it is out of love with time. It has a hunger for eternity.” ~Mary Oliver

Time is a thing of beauty, inscribed to supplement the purpose written in the script of our lives. The illusion that the hourglass is draining as the minutes go by tricks us into the lie that nothing meaningful will come from a finite ideal. Our hearts long for eternity, a place where nothing is bound by time, a place where all hope is restored.

Living with Death at the Front Door

Recently, I attended an art exhibit showcasing the work of a photographer who had immersed himself in the war-torn areas of Ukraine. The photographs showcased the people living in Ukraine, going about their daily lives and knowing that tomorrow was not promised. Life still goes on despite death knocking at the front door.

Understanding the depths of human suffering reaches out towards those who crack a smile at the corners of their mouths and those who hide the tears rolling down their cheeks. Death is not something that we can run from when it is always knocking at our door. We are to make friends with death, hold hands with the idea of dying, and allow every action to light the flame within us to unite a broken world.

Each of our individual gifts is connected. There would be no beauty, no laughter, no tears, no excitement, and no connection if we were all the same. Running into the arms of the selves that we were created to be opens us up to the life that we were always meant to embrace.

The Gift of Surrender

It is all fleeting. I remind myself of this every single day. The world is not in my control, and what we notice changes by the minute.

I have been gifted the gift of surrender. A place to lift my hands towards Heaven and dive into the intricacies of my mind amid the illusion of time. A place to be present as the wind tickles the hair on the side of my right temple, or as the mockingbird mimics the beautiful sound of another.

I am meant to be patient in the waiting, as time reminds me that every moment is written into the novel that will become my life. My story is being told day by day, creation by creation, and through every mountaintop and valley.

The calloused hands of the elderly tell me a story of a life well lived, lessons to be learned, and as people fade, blessings transcend to another. We are made to create our own rules of life based on the experiences that awaken our creative minds. When truth is told, accepting what is and what is to come enlivens us to feel everything.

Mindful 
Mary Oliver

Every day
    I see or hear
       something
            that more or less
kills me 
   with delight,
      that leaves me
           like a needle

in the haystack
    of light.
        It is what I was born for—
            to look, to listen,

to lose myself
    inside this soft world—
        to instruct myself
            over and over

in joy,
   and acclamation.
      Nor am I talking
          about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
     the very extravagant—
        but of the ordinary,
            the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
     Oh, good scholar,
          I say to myself,
              how can you help

but grow wise
    with such teachings
         as these—
             the untrimmable light,

of the world,
    the ocean’s shine,
         the prayers that are made
             out of grass?

Sources

https://www.peachbeltstudio.com/blog/of-power-and-time

https://grateful.org/resource/mindful/

Rubin, R. (2023). The creative act: A way of being. Penguin Press.