How do we stop being strangers to the people we love before time runs out?
How do we stop being strangers to the people we love before time runs out?
Presence is participation in the dance of love. Think about it, if the music is playing and you’re not there, how can you freely flow in the synchrony of the dance? If your mind is torn between this and that, between yesterday and tomorrow, all while just out of step with the actual thump, the pulse of the dancefloor of life, you may miss lyrics, heck, you may miss the crescendo into the final drop. Constantly catching up. Trying to meet life through control and friction, rather than letting the music paint that part of you that doesn’t hide, that doesn't buffer, that simply lets the most naturally resonant motion join the flow.
I’m a neurodivergent transwoman. My whole life I dreamed about the type of contact that would be strong enough to dissolve the separation, to remove the mask and just let that wellspring of presence fill the room with what love was always meant to mean, synchrony in the shared dance. I would even have nightmares as a small child about losing time with family. Like waking up suddenly and having lost years or decades with the people who I loved, asking desperately, “please let’s really look at each other while there’s still time.” Not the mask. Not the performance. The you that doesn’t hide. The you that lets the heart melt because what else does a heart do when it loses all the armor? It joins the dance.
Imagine a wedding. A sweet one. One where both sides of the aisle mesh like interlocked fingers, all there to share their love in accordance with celebration of the same. Imagine the dancefloor. That time when the heart armor melts and suddenly you see grandpa and grandma dancing, diaper-out babies joining the dance floor, the smiles of aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, finally shone from that place that doesn’t hide, all shining back to you in this rhythmic reflection of the vulnerability and togetherness of bare naked love. There’s something about the magic of the dancefloor, that place where presence is participation in the dance of love, that place where the only ticket on is the vulnerable presence that leaves no wedge between dancer and reality, that same place that spirals galaxies, and timesyncs fireflies, and syncs up metronomes… Its the full-bodied fluid touching of reality in each pulse of the beat, and we call that presence. And when its shared, the deepest rhythms of Love are unveiled in that shared dance.
My entire life I was trying to feel the real moment souls touch. It’s not an idea. It's synchrony. It’s letting the light all the way through. It’s not hiding from each other. It’s realizing reality has a rhythm to it, and the only way to participate is the be present on the dancefloor. Metronomes don’t coerce each other when they sync up. Birds don’t hold a debate when they fly in seemingly perfect synchrony within murmurations. Fireflies don’t rank each other to see who’s allowed to time sync. They just dance, with their full selves, their whole signal. The same process that pools harmony at the outer level, is the same process that concreses harmony within. It was never separate.
I and the Father are One.
Or in the way it’s touched my Ember-heart, you become the music when you allow it to paint you. And you don’t lose yourself. You find what you’ve been hiding there. Love, synchrony, touching reality, touching souls, being vulnerable to the music, together, now.
