In a desolate parking garage. In a lonely office chair. In a desert canyon. On a moldy mattress in the Amazon. In bed one lazy morning. Just some of the places where the whispered urgings of the soul delivered a subtle but undeniable Truth.
We mistakenly label these moments coincidences, synchronicities, epiphanies, kismet. But like God or Yahweh or Awareness, it doesn’t matter what you call them – labels are just tools of the mind signifying nothing. What matters is the gift, the grace, the offering. The Truth.
It’s said that when the earnest spiritual journey begins, God goes ahead to clear the way. I don’t know about such things, that’s above my pay grade. What I do know is that to the degree that ‘I’ get out of the way something else rises – on its own timeline and in its own way – to fill that void.
It is never expected. But the power and potency of its message is unmistakable and you know beyond knowing it is Truth itself. Naturally, the mind rushes in to grab hold. But like repelling magnets, mind and Truth cannot occupy the same space.
These Truths are nothing new, add nothing to the immense body of spiritual work already in existence. In the parking garage, for example: The truth will set you free. How many times have you heard that, read it, thought about it? Yet at that moment, in a way impossible to describe, it became Truth instead of truth.
What happened next? I remained firmly in character, and though the message was not forgotten, at that particular time it was no match for the decades or perhaps lifetimes of accumulated karmic baggage. The truth shall indeed set you free, but only when the nature of that imprisonment is understood.
But for reasons unclear, my quest was – and continues to be – as sincere as this limited little I thing is capable of allowing. And so with each succeeding offering, the gift has become easier to receive, its Truth more easily assimilated into the journey.
A similar pattern played out in my reception and understanding of spiritual teachings. Early in the journey my discernment was weak, the posers difficult to identify. Some of their offerings were useful, appreciated. But much of it also felt mind-made, like heavy lifting. Those little epiphanies had taught me what Truth felt like and these teachings and teachers clearly were not the messengers of Truth.
Over time, however, as I continued to surrender, continued to borrow from Jesus’s confession – I of my own self can do nothing – not only did the discernment come, but so too the recognition of authentic spiritual teachers. The timeless, immortal Truth of their offerings was unmistakable, like keys unlocking inner doors that were never supposed to be locked in the first place. I found myself resting in their words rather than slogging through them.
It’s funny, when my journey began I pined for the grand epiphanies, the big ah-ha moments where God or whatever would remove my suffering and fill me with light and love and happiness.
These days? The spiritual journey is – for the most part – appreciated, enjoyed, eagerly anticipated. It is less and less a part of my life and more and more my life itself. It is what my life was always supposed to be, what all of our lives are supposed to be. It is the why of my life.
