The Symphony I Am.. (With Miranda Warren)

 

The Symphony I Am..

And we are..

Each of us..

Is shaped by instruments

Of the noisy quiet world..

Our inward stage

Where the music plays

Cacophonies and arias 

The clash of cymbals

And  pregnant pauses.. 

All allowed and welcome

For their brief stay..

As we note their

Composition of the

Symphony I Am...

Miranda Warren's website:  This Terrible Love..

https://thisterriblelove.blogspot.com/2020/12/the-song-of-life.html?fbclid=IwAR1dFj6PrmN-AaeqKegrt_VfD0lnreu_njzUr18qPKvc2aOCcc-j2zEYu9w

They send me words, and little pictures of themselves light up the screen and reflect off my face in the darkness of the wee hours. Outside, the sounds of the forest hum a lullaby. The seekers that came here the past few years called this silence. How funny that seems, for I hear a symphony--- life singing in so many voices; a choir of love carried in the wind.

They want to know what they can do about something or other. Or they want to know how to escape the pain of something or other. They wonder if I have an opinion on what they say is going on. If they are not specific, I have to ask them what they think is going on.

For I am aware of no thing that is going on. Just the wind and the music of the dream of life that is playing a love song in my brain's theater of everything and nothing at all. And yet it is not a song you have to go to some retreat in the woods to hear.

The notes may vary, but I have heard this song everywhere it seems I have been. It sings in the heart of London, the remote Highlands of Scotland, the cities in flames, and the rooms where people take their final breath. It sings in the gunshots in an alley in Chicago, the labored breath of lovers after orgasm, and the cries of grief of the newly widowed. It echoes in the poignant wail of a baby's first cry, and in the quiet despair of people sitting alone in their rooms...never knowing they are not alone. It soars like an orchestra in the billions of songs of insects and birds and wildlife--- in the wilderness and the urban enclave.

It is the song of life and love that is weaving a dream undreamt, and what is going on is not any thing or event that appears to be happening in a separate place and time, for there is no place and there is no time. Nothing is happening to you and nothing is happening to me. And yet, I am you and you are me. And even that is as impossible and true and untrue as your beating heart, your heart which I hear right now, drumming a song of beauty so miraculous you would fall to the ground in tears if only you could hear the luminous music that you are...and aren't at all. ♥

~~Miranda Warren