Those moments. We know them when we are in them.

They are the moments that push us to take our hands and dig them deep into our soil. We know them when we are in them, because in the turned-up earth, we can smell our vitality. It smells like Spring, and something lingers in its breeze that reminds us of truth. When we inhale, we notice the stirring. Truth and passion can’t be far apart.

The Truth.

It doesn’t need our approval. It is like the sun or the seasons. It is every warm breeze, singing in every phase of moon. It will pull us and light us up and we will feel its subtle whispers in our chest.

Sometimes, I forget this.

My external world begs me for proof. It stands in its science like cement—unmoving, rigid, and unforgiving. I stand in spirit, swimming through my depths that are as enigmatic as mist and mercury. How can we not collide at times? When we do, my flow turns into something that stutters, and in those moments, I forget. I forget to trust and I wonder if my truth is merely fantasy.

This possibility can be terrifying. The possibility that the reality that we have built this life upon is not truth. That all of the magic and beauty and shine does not exist beyond the confines of our mind. The thing is, even if that is so, isn’t our mind connected to the rest of it anyway? Aren’t our minds integral parts of the whole of this body we reside in, the beautiful souls we share with, this earth we lay our feet upon, and this universe that is our breath—and what our breath becomes?

Not long ago, someone shook me. “This is it,” they said. “There is no later, no heaven, no eternity. There is no forever here.” I took a breath. How narcissistic, I thought, to believe that there exists no greater truth because we as human beings have not yet quantifiably proven it to be. How bold, I thought, to believe that there is no forever here, while simultaneously understanding that we are made of the stuff of stardust.

And, perhaps, how egotistical of me, to believe that I am seeing something that you are not?

Proof.

What is proof, anyway? Is experience proof? If that is so, then I have lived a life of this magic, and have proven its miracles again and again. Perhaps faith is its own form of wisdom. A knowing that something is bigger than ourselves, while not fully understanding that something, is faith. That’s it, really. That’s what faith is, in its truest form. It’s not necessarily blind belief, or naively subscribing to irrationality or impossibility. It’s understanding you don’t understand. It is knowing that some beauty may be too vast to fully grasp with our minds, and only with our heart can we be flooded with its light. A knowing, with all of ourselves, that blurred periphery does not mean that nothing exists outside our field of vision. And when we finally see it, when the truth finally floods us, we know our faith prepared us for a light that would have been blinding.

There are those of us who look at the ground as they walk, and there are those of us who look toward the sky. We sky-gazers have a certain look of otherness. When we look as if we are far away, it is because we are. When we take a deep breath, or many, and leap with reckless abandon from the comfortable and the safe, diving headfirst into the unknown, we explain ourselves simply with: The sky made us do it. It had us believing in something more. It filled our hearts with something that tasted like magic and it filled our minds with something that looked like truth. We saw a love that was not ordinary, and when we jumped, we let the air take us, and we soared.

Truth is trusting ourselves. It is living in the magic, while merging with the lushness of the earth. It is knowing there is a vast and expansive more, while simultaneously living fully in our present, and living it with as much fervor as we feel in our expansive heart’s view. Truth. It is not anyone else’s, and it is everyone else’s. It is a thread that weaves us all together, and it is that which makes each of us unique enough to grow. We teach each other, we learn from each other, we support each other as we dig our toes into the sands of our realities, feeling each individual grain between our toes.

Truth. I’ve decided to let yours and mine mingle in the ethers between our breath, until together, they create something that is even more beautiful. Until together, they become our bridge between earth and sky, connecting us to everything.

 

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Author: Jillian Breitfeller

Image: Flickr/Sophie

Editor: Travis May