Words to live as.
We talk of being versus doing, of learning to practice more stillness, of changing the way we live our lives. More and more I think it’s learning who and how we really are and letting that essence express itself! Repeating myself, we’re really not physical forms who have to do so much, as we are entirely Spirit’s expression of Itself, through us. Watch little children.
Plunging into the Spiritual Alphabet I blogged about earlier, with many additions, I thought of this essay written by a special mentor of mine, a Welshman, a celebrated poet who became a spiritual healer and mentor as a teacher-practitioner of Christian Science.
This essay is about many things, including Generosity, Magnanimity, feeling like a flowing stream, of love and light and inspiration. Not fixed and declining forms having to maintain itself with exercise and pills and special diets against an avalanche of time and the elements. The more I understand my true nature, the freer I feel let inspiration lead and worry less about lack, impoverishment, loss, loneliness, because we’re really endless and bountiful streams. Mr. John personified that more than most people I’ve known.
Hope you enjoy!!
‘The Gift that is in Thee’
THE SUN’S fingers were playing along a 6 a.m. cobweb which linked the eavestrough with the lintel of my open window when I heard a faint tapping at the door.
“Come in,” I invited.
A child’s face peeped from behind the door, finger on lips.
“Daddy,” whispered Kristen. (It was too early to speak aloud.)
“I’ve got something special for you!”
There was a pause. I nodded. And my daughter’s eye’s lit up with her purpose as she tiptoed carefully toward me.
“Put out your hand, Daddy,” she said as she held her own aloft, clenched tightly. Then slowly and deliberately she lowered her closed secret into my outstretched palm. The tiny fingers opened and drew quietly away. I felt her eyes on mine as I gazed intently at my empty hand….
Another pause. Then I raised the invisible gift to my chest, exclaiming, “Kristen, this is wonderful!”
Her face was suddenly radiant. Gratitude and delight passed swiftly across it. Now in subdued ecstasy, my morning visitor retreated on her toes.
I sat there in my room long afterward, holding that invisible gift close in my thought. What had been received? Whatever it was, its light now played along my early prayers like the sun’s hand along that cobweb.
“—Of course, it was only a game after all,” the philistine brings us back to earth, closing windows, dismissing the symbolism, discounting the moral lesson along with its poetry. But here in Kristen’s morning pantomime, as in the true poem, idea and experience had merged to bring about for me Keats’ wedding of truth with beauty.
And the truth that took on this beauty? I’m still plumbing its depths. Some of us can give without being happy—but none of us can be really happy without giving. But there’s more to it than this. The good deed, we know, is a means not an end. The essential moral qualities look outward to the goals of good—not sideways to the glorification of deeds. No, I’m not about to get lost in the moralist’s country.
“Neglect not the gift that is in thee,” Paul wrote to Timothy. Intuitively, children never do. That 6 a.m. encounter brought father and daughter face to face with the beauty in them. Now let me be involved with your need, friend, without being entangled. I mean instead of being drawn behind the closed windows of your problem, let me ask how thought can swing more and more outward toward solutions through the open window of a joie de vivre whose existence in us perhaps we’ve never even guessed at before.
It is something like coming face to face with the unbelieved in and saying, “I believe in you”; it is to be led out of our wilderness; it is to laugh with the young, to revere the elderly, to find the lost. It is to remember that in each of us looms a new world of undiscovered character. It is to open a window.
In the heart’s country, windows are not made to close. Here they open onto woods; let in the breath of lilac, wild cherry, pine—-let out children’s shouts and singing, the celebration of life. For within the radius of our thinking lie ideas of fresh and startling interest, still awaiting some private revelation. Like unknown, unvoiced songs in us, they are here, waiting to be heard.
To better understand this, I need to find the windows in my life that have not yet been opened. Withholding impoverishes, and withholding, surely, is the reluctance to open a window. Perhaps prejudice has closed it. Or perhaps there has already been a retreat into the limbo of spectatorism (and that is spiritual poverty!) Perhaps after all, up to this point in my life—dare I admit it—I have not gone deep enough, stopping just short of the gold lying beneath the stratum of stereotype.
“Put out your hand, Daddy….”
We are what is hinted through each life lived intently, remembered by every covenant of the opening hand. And we are what we give when caught in the act of discovering the untouched gold in ourselves, when we let escape that rare delight in living which opens someone’s eyes to the same celestial mineral among his own reserves.
Windows are for opening.
from FIVE SEASONS, selected poems and essays of Godfrey John,
originally published by The Christian Science Publishing Society