hòmily to the søul

Blessed be to the ocean friend. Peace to the souls of innumerable children of the friend, the beloved. I celebrate waking up every day, loved to be in the arms of the rising sun; smiling with her glints of faith. The problem with life is not life itself, it is what the eyes cannot see. What these ears within our ears cannot hear. Every morning the universe delivers its fascinating sermons through the many portals of natures excellence and brilliant spectacles, but not all her many citizens have an eye to see, or an ear to engage in this phenomena of the beloved. Look around you, earth child, there’s love and support, hidden on your blind spot

The problem with life is not the presence of darkness. It is the lack of understanding of the hidden jewels of darkness. Darkness is a mine. Darkness is a blessing in disguise. Darkness is not a curse. Darkness is a purging fire. She speaks a silent language but at times, He can be harsh within your bones as if he could choke us to death. But the problem is not how harsh it could be or how deceitfully he walks within our neighbourhoods in lonely nights, a sickle in his hands. The problem is giving too much strength to the blade in his hands and not being able to identify it also as a gift, as a purging fire, as a silent or harsh guest. He doesn’t stay forever. He has his work in his bag. When he is done with his business of purging and instructing the soul, he leaves. Don’t force him to evacuate your soul’s colony, fear in your eyes. You may lose your mind fighting the teacher. You are a disciple of life — everything around you is your instructor. Yes, the darkness too. His trade is not amiable for the faint-hearted. Flower child, heads up; his glories comes down, to strengthen you, through it all

The problem with life is not living without pennies and dimes, but living; not appreciating the simple things life offers, but to be highly obsessed with a tomorrow, the end goal; missing the tiny little pieces of goodness scattered all around us. Every journeyman’s fuel is the little things they appreciate on their pilgrim highways and byways as they hustle every day in order to enter the land of milk and honey, where he joins a million company of men to celebrate his arrival, their accomplishments, their ultimate fulfilments. Thy cup is not empty, thy heart is in the wrong place. Come home, my child

Birds talk, trees smile, oceans sing, the rain pats the backs of the journeyman on sunny days, but a nuisance to the prisoner of hearts, the wind beckons us to run with patience, the flower calms the soul, faces of men divulge anecdotes and tales of possibilities; inspiring hearts of men. Men who see and listen. My pen burns with gratitude every night; applauding the friend for his constant sermons of enoughness and wholeness, through the many outlets of his own will and sovereignty. Blessed be to the ocean friend. Peace to the souls of innumerable children of the friend, the beloved. May all journeymen reach home to their highest self, in peace, in joy; rare fulfilling songs on your lips. Amen!

AgM. | March 2020 | Metanoia |c: unknown artist

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