Winged Creatures
Dear friend,
I woke this morning with an unnamed fear.
Hovering.
Leaving the Astral dimensions, sleepily returning to the material plain, it’s tempting to turn over in search of flight in the dark behind the shutters.
But this morning is also brilliant sunlight. Clear blue skies so you can see all the way to the French Alps. The air in September is fresh here and the trees are only just beginning to drop their leaves.
We’re in the countryside outside of Turin visiting Chiara’s parents and her sister.
I feel a sense of freedom. Untethered from my old life, adjusting to the new. A Fledgling.
Learning to trust in the power behind the world, the world changes more quickly than we have time to adjust.
There’s a lag in which you just have to be as kind with yourself as you would be with a little kid. Humanity is ever in our infancy. No matter what our culture tells us about being grown, we are always growing.
The fear dissipates as I watch the cat sitting on Angelo’s lap, eyeing Angelo’s yoghurt bowl at the breakfast table. The cat’s face disappears into the bowl and he gets some licking done before he’s scooped away by Bettie.
Little things.
The comedy of cats and cup of coffee.
They make all the difference.
The figs on the table were picked from the garden.
As peace descends I recognise it as my oldest friend. It came with me into this world as it did with you. Like a bird singing or the sound of the breeze in the trees, it’s here now beneath the turbulence of the mind and our overloaded senses.
Even in the most tranquil place, if we’re agitated on the inside we can be in turmoil. And the opposite is true.
You don’t need to leave the city.
You can meditate wherever you are. It’s like charging up a phone. You don’t do it once and expect the phone to function forever.
When the cat first came here he would only approach to eat and retreat, watching from a distance. When winter bit he came closer and slept in a box full of blankets on the balcony.
Now he’s eating at the breakfast table.
Coming home to Spirit.
Give yourself time.
We all must return.
No one is left out because no one can be.
It doesn’t look that way.
That’s Maya, or illusion or whatever you want to call it.
It’s a return to love.
Winged creatures flying.
Through the dark.
To the light.
For each.
A new day.
Dawning.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey