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Jul 19

Written By Dane Dowell

The season is turning—

Autumn is here.

A great transformation of the world draws near.

The realms are divided—

The confines of fear.

The peace of the Global Order—

Now unclear.

Felt at our deepest core,

Grief anchors us to the floor,

Longing to go back to a time from before.

The pain is blinding,

Focused on that which we lose,

Once hopeful for a future,

Now defeated, we recuse.

In our hour of need,

In churches on bended knee—

Though each in our own language—

Our own rituals and traditions—

United in communion,

Together as one,

We pray for redemption:

Yahweh, Mother, Great Spirit, oh Allah—

Restore the world,

God of Creation—

Brahma.

But lest we forget Shiva—

The God of Destruction—

The one who ushers in the

Age of Deconstruction.

The loss of what is,

The memory of what was—

As chaos consumes hope,

So, too, war, la paz.

But shadow and light,

Diablo y dios—

Inextricably linked,

Yet each distinct.

Bound by our mortality,

We cannot have life

Without the presence of strife.

Like the forest that burns

With the storm when lightning strikes,

The black and embered fields,

Full of trunks, now barren spikes.

Oxygen—

The very air we breathe—

Now fuels the fire,

And in the smoke, we drown.

The identities we embrace—

The armor that hides our face—

We must learn to dismantle;

We must break it down.

But as the rains douse the fire,

And soak into the earth,

If we wait long enough,

We’ll see the green of new birth.

Though forces move in ways we cannot comprehend,

Some cycles must repeat—

Certain patterns we cannot mend,

And some laws cannot be broken.

In the stillness of Death,

Only one word need be spoken:

Rise.

And Life is reborn—

The soul, re-awoken.

The fire is real—

And Death is necessary for a truer Life to start—

One that is aligned and honors the Sacred Heart.

What you do with the ashes—

That is the art.

So, in the ruins create space

For that which is new,

The life that “could be,”

The life that is begging

To emerge within you.

The season is turning—

And so must we.

But the choice is yours—

Release the belief that you’re bound by fate—

Embrace the deconstruction—

Can you see the blank slate?

Pick up the brush—

Your canvas awaits—

Colors that once glowed when you were eight.

Release the dreams you told to wait—

Unlock the door—

Open the gate—

And breathe in the essence of the Spirit—Great.