Reflections From My True Self

Remembering Who I Really Am


Always Home

Today I was home again, with my child-heart open and feeling as free as I did when I spent the entire day away from people, wandering in the forests and fields of La Finca without concern about when I’d return or who knew where I was.

I didn’t take an airplane and rush to catch a connection. I let Reiki take me, allowed my consciousness to flow with the energy, and I found myself again in the hidden bower I went to as a child to quiet my mind. I found myself looking up into the sky through the fuzzy leaves and bright fuchsia flowers of my favorite tree there, a tuno roso. I could smell the little brook that runs only a few paces from the tree, and the warm moisture of the earth rose into my body as I lay there, basking in quietude.

Mountain view

As I lay there, I became aware that Casquito was with me, my horse companion who died so many years ago. She was standing in the shade, not grazing, just looking me over gently. I ran to her and embraced her, my face against her soft red neck. Inhaling her warm, familiar scent, something in my chest loosened and crumbled, fell away and opened new space within me.

A timelessness came over me, a sense of absolute expansiveness, without borders, without edges, just space spreading outward. It was like breathing deeply inward, filling myself, and discovering that my lungs had no end, just more space for more nourishing air.

Then I was simultaneously running through the grass, pushing my shins through its gentle resistance, and floating on the wind, like a feather caught in a breeze, passing over treetops and dropping onto branches.

I understood then, with parts of my Self that are not in my head, that this is home, this place that is there and nowhere at once, that I am always home when I choose to be. I understood that I can be earthbound and flying at once: that I am always free.


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I Am All That

I accept an invitation out of my hiding place in the small closet, where I am cramped and tight, where I can only whisper. I step out, expecting to find a huge room, maybe a ballroom.

But I am in a grassy field high in the mountains, surrounded by dandelions blooming bright. I look around and recognize this place, I can see the familiar Andes stretching in the distance, beyond the shimmering forest that grows at the field’s distant edges. My heart expands with gratitude and joy, for this is home.

But suddenly I am drawn halfway down the mountain, towards a small, young forest of silvery eucalyptus trees. I am drawn there, and, unexpectedly, I am the forest, feeling each tree and its roots stretching into the soil. I am that soil, particle by particle. I am the grass, blade by blade, and the field entire, lapping up to the forest edge.  I am the pond beyond that, molecule by molecule of water. I am the mountains pushing up out of the crust of the earth and tripping on themselves away, away, here. I am the distance and the very air. That is my body.

I can see my own eyes, soft and loving, silver-grey in the blur of silver and grey and brown and green and blue and white that is me. I can see the waves that radiate through me, and I can feel them rippling outwards in my human heart.

I am all that.

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Thanks to Satyam, I take an inner journey to a conversation with a younger —very young— version of myself. She is round faced, wide-eyed, in overalls and a striped shirt, her hair short-short. She’s five. And delighted by the world.

She shows me how she plays with the leaves of grass and the butterflies and the sunbeams. She puts out her hand to touch them, and I can see how the edges blur; her hand is no longer a hand; it is moving, colored lines —shifting faster than my eye can follow.

My heart, though, can follow; it perceives the reverberations.

This is clearly so easy for her, so natural. She is impatient with me when I say I don’t know how to do that. Her expression tells me: she thinks I am wilfully withholding this from her.

I bring her close to my adult self, she folds into my center. And suddenly, I can feel my edges blur, and I am the horizon of the land that is home to my soul.

A panoramic of a field and mountain separated by trees

The horizon of Home