Just a Woman

When will the blind start to see? Will they always miss me, the way they miss the stars every night? Right in front of them I am, here to love them. I could stop writing there.

They cannot see.

I once said for those that have eyes to see let them see. The first fruits meant, just three? There’s more. There must be.

But where are they?

I come to the West Coast and then to the East, I catch up over coffee. I catch up, and hush up, saying very little for when they respond, they do not listen. They interrupt and do not hear.

They cannot hear.

I look up to the sun and I still talk to all of them.

I’ve come back to only love them and yet many hearts are so riddled in illusion, in distraction. I feel their hearts beyond their familiar faces, and yet they do not feel mine.

They cannot see, they cannot hear, and they cannot feel.

I find myself’s reflection in the eyes of a baby smiling back at me as I take my seat on the plane headed to the place where I was once rooted.

I go for a walk and have lunch under the willow tree from my eight year old days.  The dogs, the birds, the butterflies greet my every step. I whisper to them in gratitude, finding comfort in the familiar vibrations of love that have now taken this body I used to call me over.

I walk at night in my usual white peering up at the Mount Shasta sky. The stars twinkling back at me just a second longer winking in their recognition.

Warm tears uncertain of their origin greet my cheeks. Peaceful tears, streaming down my face with a mysterious purpose.

I never knew how quietly God inhabits a body and no human is there to perceive and receive the difference.

I never knew how many hearts God is not welcome in.

They see a woman, and they call her sweet heart. They call her darling, they call her honey.

They see a woman, and they tell her to be…careful.

They see a woman’s place as a mother to her children, yet in their eyes, never could a mother be God, the mother of the world.

Honey, Sweet heart, Darling… I hear it again.

Over 200 decades of hiding Daughter God and here we are, here is your world.


When they find out who was the one on the cross, maybe then, they will see? Maybe then they will hear? Maybe then they will feel?

Maybe then, they will know that I’ve come again like I came before.

To just love them.

Maybe then to them, I’ll no longer be just a woman.

Published by TheEnlightenedRebel

My story

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