I will always remember the day I got a healing from Theo, a man of Peru. I fully expected to see him again this month. But Agata, the woman who brought him here, died on February 1 of this year. It was a hasty death from stomach cancer and everyone was deeply sorrowful when she left. Just 47, she had the disposition of an angel.
Now spring is unfurling itself as it always does. I am contemplating a move, but if it happens, it will take a while. Restless, I sail about in my house wondering what to throw overboard. There are a few things I know I will keep.
One is the flat white stone that fits the palm of my hand, the one I picked up from Agata’s front porch when I saw her for the last time.
Sometimes the treasure is so powerful that it is enough in and of itself. It carries a message from the higher worlds that can never be decoded by the mind. It begs to be appreciated for its simplicity and mystery. Ultimately that is what we are made of.
Everything complex unravels at some point if we are lucky. Everything is seen for what it is, a delaying tactic to put our sight where it belongs, on that which cannot be seen or used by the ego.
Love is what we are made of and for. So hard to remember this in our state of worldly sleep. We must trade the worthless trash we have accumulated over a lifetime for the pearl of great price.
Only in that way will we ever come to peace.