I breathe in faith. I live and move
and wait and know that faith is a thing that comes, as easily as the breath, as
elusive as the wind. I do not experience much hold on faith. It’s there. Or
it’s not. I do cultivate it, watering the seeds of breath-in/breath-out…
I had a dream that I was swimming through a landscape of
paint. The substance had the sheen of acrylics, the viscosity of watercolors,
the permanence of oil. The slightest movements of fingertips etched ridges in
mountainsides, rubbed sunrises into existence, added glistening pearl drops of
shimmer.light to leaves twirling in
midday breezes.
“I forget that faith is not faith if it is dependent upon
evidence in the here and now.” Faith is borne of an inner trust, an
intuitive knowing, even a retrospective glance at repeated,
divinely-interceded, events. But in the present tense, faith has no
tangibility; its flower is peace, its roots draw nourishment from the well of
Spirit.
The waking portion of post-dream left me awash in
inspiration – breathing in, yes. But also inspired. I can do anything, if my
heart is guided there.
I ran into a new friend from the carillon choir; she has
a full life outside those ninety minutes of ringing; she does stuff: works, buys
her eggs, travels, cares for family. We exchanged
smiles and a few words; we share a mutual gift: mirroring each other’s
rapid-succession notes in a particular piece, and I know I’m in sync when in my
periphery I see her hand begin to rise as my own lifts toward the high end stroke of the
bell.
Joining the carillon ringers was inspired, spontaneous and
is - oh yes - divine!
The most beautiful nest I’ve ever held is sitting on my
desk: the tipped over refuge.no.more with spilled eggs from last week has transformed
into an art piece. I can quietly untether myself from the need to mimic
Nature’s craftsmanship by taking as many moments as I desire to lovingly trace
with my eyes the patterns and essence of that nest… sitting now inside, just inches
from the computer.
I can’t believe that even my fanciful dream.paint.fingers
would ever be capable of conjuring the artistic woven intricacy of twigs, rope, weeds, seeds,
hair, lichens and thread.
Outside the post office, with nothing much at all whirling
along mental pathways usually congested with tasks, theories, mantras or
daydreams, I have an odd thought about calling the local tap dancing studio to
sign up for a class. Then I wonder if I should add this to my bucket list. And then I wonder where that thought even came
from.
Is it an echo from the dream in which faith was carried in the
micromoment of a corpus performing miracles in a gooey landscape? Is this how
faith becomes inspiration?
What scraps of dreams and longings
come to you in the form of faith.turned.inspiration? What will you do to pile the wood and kindling, to light
your fire in the cozy haven of soul? How will you dare to swim, stroll, strew or piece together the
collage that is your beautifully inspired song so that you remain faithful to nurturing
your potential? Who will you be if you do not?
Who will you be when you are finished writing this story?
All blog images created &/or photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2014 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
