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the presencepulse
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Growth in reduction is the bane of this world.
Almost all growth tactics these days are reductionist approaches. We sit in the confines of limited constructs that assume progress while in reality, they are safe harbors that cower in false pretense scared of our immense potential.
Their friendship was shaped by their pen. Almost an ode to writing letters of old where kinship developed with no sight, sound, or physical presence but through a transport layer.
The language they communicated carried the connection that the in-person meeting only validated but didn’t create.
And that ought to tell you something about how the distance we think we hold, is but a figment of imagination. The separation fades as if or because it was never there.
To that table, you are invited to eavesdrop on the intimate conversation that unfolded.
The food served was Roman, with ancient delicacies which are not for everyone. Reminiscent of the poor days when scraps were all Romans could afford. You find ox tail, tongue, and extremities discarded become exquisite flavors.
The evening didn’t know a start because it had started a long time ago. Instead, the conversation continued.
They shared about pain being a gateway, skepticism running wild, and days when their actions burned them to the ground before they were rebuilt.
Where they knew beyond doubt something so deep and obvious but took a long while before they recognized it.
A prophet knew wisdom before they had experienced it. A healer gave breath to a chest closed, not being theirs, and yet was. Sounds like magic and might as well be.
But between the laughs and the cheers, the evening came to a close, and just before they bid each other farewell. Copies of their stories they signed.
The Way of the Wind deemed it that they met. For a Reality Check that confirmed that they already had.
The words carried. The language bridged. And for a second there, it is so easy to mistake the transport layer for more than it is.
The skeptic questioned the belief of a past life as a source of where some of our being is fractured into this reality as the two entertained a oneness to our awareness into this world.
And from that skepticism unveiled a story of our innocence corrupted by the trauma of forming who we are and spending a lifetime building walls against that suffering not realizing it is the bane of our existence.
You see, we imagine growth as a form of reduction not as an expansiveness into what we can never contain. The pain of suffering causes us to fold and cower and in that reduction, we believe we matured and grown.
Yet beyond all, that is where we are wrong. Whatever elevation you think you have attained in exploiting and abusing that which you think you can control can never be the truth.
Because beyond you lives a fragility that knows no bound for connection, and in the small gaps of our existence, when we fail to control it, a miracle slips through the cracks and shines on what we always knew but struggle to articulate.
For in words, it cannot live.
It will amplify stupidity no less than it will do for the perception of intelligence.
Que sera, sera. The song goes, the wind blows, and on the edge of a cliff dies the proud believing they attained growth in whatever form of reduction they deemed success while simply being the utmost failure.
Until next time,
Carlo