On Sunday, when I had relaxed into the assumption that all I had to do now was find my way home, I was unexpectedly greeted by a beautiful, radiant soul who happened to be subscribed to the journal you’re now reading. This person, whom I recognized, yet whose name I could not recall, leapt immediately into an exuberant appreciation of what they read here, reeling off a list of praises that left me gasping in their completeness at reflecting my own desire and inspiration in sharing them.
This very brief encounter continued to shine as one of the brightest surprises of a weekend drenched in unimaginable gifts I couldn’t begin to describe here. But I didn’t yet know why.
Writing for the audience of this online journal is, in truth, for my self. And, in fact, I have little choice in the matter. Divine inflow becomes so increasingly abundant that without appropriate outflow, I would literally become my own nuclear holocaust. Which brings me back to the reason for sharing this.
Reusing a metaphor I’ve previously borrowed here—that of the sun’s light and warmth being shared with no concern whatsoever over whether its recipients will be appreciative—the experience truly is much like that of a self-luminous being which can only express its true self. And, having just written those words, I find my self face-to-face with having written my self into an inescapable corner of awareness not previously apparent. Helpless tears of gratitude flood my being. That’s all I’m willing to say.
To say I have anticipated this moment for a very long time, knowing all along that I had no idea what it would look like, is laughably inadequate. But I have never imagined that it would take this form, and it would actually be something I could even faintly write about—in public, yet. Yet here it is. Can I actually publish it without diminishing it? That remains to be seen. From the vantage point of now, yes, I can.
The original carrot in front of the donkey’s nose in beginning to write was to let this beautiful soul who stopped me in the hallway know what she probably already knows—that nearly everything here is not written by Larry Horton at all. I’m just recording the words of the true Writer Whose unending and unbending love and grace increasingly fill my awareness. And when I’m done, I stand in awe, thunderstruck at what has come through. Curiously, I never seem to be ‘done’.
And now I have one more message of gratitude to this soul—that the Master used this singular encounter, as the indescribable gift it was, to lead me to a moment of perception that cannot be verbalized, but which enables me to recognize the thread of His love weaving its way, unbroken, through each of us and all else, and binds us in its blinding perfection. The flash I had years ago is manifesting into the realization that we are, indeed, one soul—His. And that simple reality uncannily lifts the enormous weight of any other reality from our shoulders.
This contemplation certainly doesn’t end here. This is only its beginning. But the rest is for me alone.
May we all be so graced in our own perfect way.
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