Chapter 47 Going to myself and listening My God's voice
Chapter 47 Going to myself and listening My God's voice
And as I sit beneath the shadowed branches, watching the faint promise of snow’s arrival, I am reminded that this longing for transformation is not solely water’s but ours as well. We are, in essence, like the snow-laden tree—standing quietly, awaiting the moment when the unseen will manifest in a sudden, exquisite revelation. Sometimes, I wonder if the stillness we seek is not a sign of stagnation but a sacred space where the soul prepares itself for renewal. Perhaps, in the silence before the rain, we are merely holding our breath, anticipating the cleansing that will come and wash away the accumulated dust of doubt and fear.
The sky, heavy with unspoken promises, seems to whisper stories of epochs past—tales of seasons changing, of rivers carving valleys, of mountains standing firm yet eroded in secret. Each drop of rain that finally falls is like a note in a divine symphony, a small act of grace that reminds us that life’s most profound transformations are often subtle and slow. They do not announce themselves with grand fanfares but arrive softly, like the first whispers of dawn breaking through the darkness.
In this waiting, I find a strange comfort—the understanding that growth often requires patience and surrender. Just as water must become vapor or snow before it can assume new forms, so must we relinquish our rigid notions of certainty and control. We must learn to accept the melting moments, the fleeting illusions of permanence, and trust that beneath the surface, life is quietly rearranging itself, preparing for a new expression of itself.
I think about the countless unseen changes happening in the world around us—seeds sprouting underground, animals migrating across vast distances, stars burning out only to be reborn in distant galaxies. All these acts of silent transformation are reminders that life’s greatest beauty lies in its impermanence. The rain’s eventual arrival is not merely a climatic event but a symbol of hope—a gentle reminder that after darkness, light returns, and after stillness, movement resumes.
If only we could see ourselves through the lens of water’s longing—to be formless yet full of purpose, to dissolve boundaries and embrace fluidity. Perhaps then, we would stop resisting the inevitable flow of change and instead dance with it, trusting that every dissolution leads to renewal. In helping water find its perfect form—whether as snow, vapour, or liquid—we participate in a sacred act, one that echoes the divine rhythm of creation itself.
And so, I will wait, knowing that when the rain finally comes, it will not only wash away the dust of the night but also baptize our spirits in the clarity of renewal. We will emerge, perhaps a little softer, a little more open, ready to reshape ourselves and the world around us. For in that gentle rain lies the promise of rebirth—a reminder that, in every ending, there is a new beginning waiting patiently to unfold.
Until then, I will remain here, attentive to the silent symphony of transformation, grateful for the stillness that prepares us for the storm, and humbled by the mysterious beauty of water’s endless longing to become something more. And so, with the quiet anticipation of change, I rise from my seat beneath the branches and decide to seek solace elsewhere—to the sacred space of the church. The air is crisp as I walk through the quiet streets, the faint echo of footsteps and distant bells guiding me. The doors open with a gentle creak, and I step inside, feeling the cool, hushed atmosphere envelop me like an old, familiar prayer.
In the confessional booth, I kneel and whisper my thoughts and fears, the words flowing softly, unburdening my heart to the unseen presence. The silence that follows feels like a loving embrace, a moment of divine understanding. I leave the confessional lighter, the weight of unspoken doubts lifted, trusting that in surrendering my burdens, I open myself to transformation—just as water must sometimes dissolve and flow freely to find its true form.
Later, with a renewed sense of peace, I head toward the beach. The salty air greets me as I step onto the warm sands, the rhythmic crashing of waves a soothing melody. I walk along the shoreline, feeling the grains of sand sift between my toes, each step a gentle reminder of impermanence and resilience. The vast horizon stretches endlessly before me, a symbol of infinite possibility and the ongoing dance of change.
I find a quiet spot where the sea meets the sky, and I sit down, watching the horizon blur where water and sky converge. The ocean’s relentless ebb and flow mirror the tides within me—sometimes calm, sometimes tumultuous, but always moving forward. I take a deep breath, inhaling the briny air, and feel a profound connection to the natural cycle of renewal. Here, at the edge of the world, I surrender once more to the mystery of water’s endless longing—to transform, to renew, to become more than what I was yesterday.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting hues of gold and crimson across the sky, I feel a gentle reassurance that just like the ocean, I too am part of this perpetual dance of change. And in this moment, I am reminded that every ending is but a new beginning waiting patiently to unfold, beneath the vast, forgiving sky.