santos scribes

the veil is thin, ‘gone’ she said. its absence and presence abound, the worlds are one. she feels it not only in the air or the ether but deep within her earthly bones and buzzing at the surface of her skin. there was that unsettling dream with the crown of her hair missing and then of course the heaviness of an ancient stairwell in old new england. the separateness is waning, time blurring, shadows and light now too. it all shifts and turns, creates new patterns, its own way of being. ends are meeting, loosely, beginning, things make sense, not logically but subtly, spiritually and just outside the periphery of her breathing body. she feels the color of a fallen maple leaf, understands its secret bruising, the sacredness of its geometry and death. the veil is thin, ‘gone’ she says, like the new skin around a freshly boiled egg, cracked and peeling beneath quick, able fingers. she doesn’t sense him in the room with her now, but her mind, the ever fine tuning fork, allows her to hear him sometimes, them really: the throaty laughter, the raspy rhapsody, the forgiveness. she discerns their waxy whispers from the glowing autumn wind, the message becomes clear:

you took this body to teach her- fear is just an illusion, belonging solely to the experience and not ever to the soul.