Birthing the Holy

Last night, I walked through an oak-shrouded park in near full moonlight. My companion and I watched as a circle encompassed the silver lady, one so impossibly large that it skimmed the plane of the horizon. We kept looking over our shoulders as she peered between the bare branches. (Oaks take longer than most to break into spring life, but they are also the last to bow to winter’s rule.)

As we entered an open area, we again looked back, and I gasped. The moon was ensconced, rising, upon a swirling vortex of cloud that spiraled long and lean, holding the orb – or perhaps birthing it – high in the sky. The vortex gradually receded, forming a sky-spanning, perfect swan that lay motionless under the glowing moon.

Unknowing, he knelt and I sat, because it was a sight too awesome (in the true sense) to bear upon one’s feet. I now understand the concept of ‘holy’. What does it mean? I asked my God.

I heard, “An amazing thing is being birthed. It is global and it is personal. It looks like many separate things, but it is really all One. It is larger and more joyful than you can possibly imagine, and it will – you will – you all will – take wing. It is time for my children to Dream again.”

Awen.

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