Silent Voices of the Soul: The Backstory (part 3)

My morning routine was something I looked forward to as much as having my first cup of coffee. I always wondered what I’d be writing about. Sometimes it seemed like there would be nothing to say about my life. But I wrote anyway. Many times I wrote about how grateful I was to be having a cup of coffee in silence, to be enjoying a quiet moment alone while everyone else in the house slept. Then ideas suddenly came into my head. I looked out the window and watched the sky gradually lighten from black to gray to blue. I listened to the birds singing in the trees and watched the squirrels climb up the dogwood tree as if they were playing some kind of game. Poetry took shape in my mind as I looked out the window. Words came. I wrote them down. Then Spirit took my hand and gave me a glimpse of what I was seeing from a Higher Perspective, from a metaphorical point of view.

As a poet, I have always seen life as a metaphor. That’s just the way my mind has always worked. I have always seen things from the perspective of an objective observer, someone who is standing across the room, viewing things from a distance. At the same time, I have always felt life very deeply. I have always been deeply sensitive to the people and things around me. You name it and I can feel it; my greatest strength is my biggest weakness.

Writing put me in a meditative state of mind. It quieted the noise and allowed me to connect with the highest part of me. The more I wrote, I quieter my mind became. The quieter I made my mind, the easier it was to hear the silent voices speak.

At first I thought there was just one voice, but soon other personalities made themselves known to me–every energy had a different way of expressing itself. They had things to say. They needed someone to write them down. I was listening, and I was holding a pen in my hand. It was the perfect arrangement. They were my teachers. I was the student.

As silent as these voices were, I was able to “hear” them. They spoke from the center of my soul. They whispered amazing things to me, things I had never thought about, things that had never ever entered my mind. They told me to pay close attention to the world around me, that is was a reflection of the world within me.

I have always believed that these beings were once writers–people who had written books but were never able to bring them to the world. Maybe their lives were cut short. Maybe they never finished what they had started. Maybe they knew me at another time in a different place, and we had agreed to meet up in this lifetime to collaborate on a spiritual project. As I am writing, chills are traveling across my shoulders and up my arms; Spirit is saying that what I am telling you is true. That’s our signal.

Regardless of whatever pact we had made in a past life, I knew I needed to listen to my teachers and write down the lessons. I knew I needed to record everything that was coming into my head–every insight that was finding me. I wrote things down exactly as they were given to me. And if I tried to make a correction, if I tried to edit their words, if I questioned anything they said, the lesson abruptly came to an end. Eventually I understood that this relationship was based on trust.They trusted me to write down their messages. I needed to trust that what they were telling me was the truth.