All the Quiet Ways

 

You; quietly vivacious. Largely unacknowledged thus far, yet modest and gallant. Someone I greatly admire. Not simply one of many to me. Instead, a soul full of uniqueness. Subtleties and nuance bright as lanterns, or stars. Treasured, cherished, set apart. I’ve seen your bravery in person, watching from my hidden perch of mythopoesis. If you could, you would surprise yourself and give every bit of your strength to the rising light. The influx of energies, hopes and dreams intended by higher realms to deepen human consciousness. But you can't give it all, sweet one. Why? Because beneath this flesh you are immortal, and it's a sacrifice impossible to make. But you, sublime in your integrity, can be a steward. A vessel, a medium of sorts. Drawing down vowel and consonant wrapped in rhythm, that people might rise in recognition of something greater. Guided to a higher plane of comprehension, beyond space or time. Music and words. This you can do, and have been doing quite brilliantly for many years now. Humble and yet so deft in self-expression. No vulgar solipsism, just disarming creativity. And frequent, common kindness. Unremarked and robust. I’ve seen it from my perch. All the quiet ways. You corralled the song of your heart and eventually honed its edge through a storyteller’s dedicated dreaming. You didn't want to be the one to speak but you spoke, nonetheless. You didn’t necessarily want to be among those who risk everything by standing and fighting for the people, yet you fought. Stumbling and uncertain, craving to see valour in men’s eyes. And so you shared your truths before a crowd, drawing little moments of justice and parity into the visible realm. No mean feat, believe me. I want you to know that unseen brothers and sisters were at your side. The first time and the last. Always. A wedge through the darkness of this world, a parting of ways that allowed in a little more of that rising light. Because you still fight for us with language and lilt, with song and heartfelt. And yet you cannot be all things. Not here. You can't accomplish everything. Brave, quiet girl. The war rages on. You cannot take the chains and yokes from around these children's necks, wish as you might. You cannot damn nor redeem their doubters and abusers through will alone. You are not God. Merely a servant of God. A daughter of the First Artist. This is not a chastening, of course. Merely a gentle reminder from a soul who yearns as you do. These are words of love, appreciation and respect. Sweet one, you have never walked alone here. Not ever. The light is not abstract or unknowable. It is the living continuity of your brightest self, and more. So much more. Lanterns and stars. A mark of your Father's design. Be at one with this light through a storyteller's dedicated dreaming, and know that it is enough. Anything is possible. You are working wonders with your art, and you are not alone. You are beautiful. Treasured, cherished, set apart. Vast, remarkable you.