Without the beat of any drum

Weaving and swirling, casting a hand of stealth healing. High they fly, low they crawl. Magical. Merciful. Gracious and humane, forever genuine.

They stride and glide, tip toe in the silent sprinkle of glittering dust, sometimes soaring in whispers as delicate as a flawless feather falling from the cosmos. They go unnoticed in humbling humility and in lashings of hushed becalm, serene in acts of sincerity across the Earth.

Considerate, caring, loving; ever watchful in a compassionate intensity of spirit. Without effort or expectation, they nurture. Unperturbed, they're always on call, always listening for the silent sob hiding in a dark corner.

No judgement, no conspiracy, no mock or disdaining taunt. They feel in the intricacy of fine lace and in that, can hold a thousand breaking aches.

Yet, they hurt like anyone, cry in tears of budding yellow tulips of the collective. And then somehow, they heal themselves to carry on, heal any knife wound piercing deep into a buried abyss.

And what defines them, is their ability to do and act and mend in a nurture that weaves and binds any cracking blare and unveiled glare.

They’re not mythical beings, or celestial, atmospheric entities derived in pagan or religious law, nor do they come from any far flung realm or universe.

They walk among us wearing hearts gilded in gold, hearts that emanate as the king of the universal jungle and with the courage to match. From there, they access an unyielding inner strength to help wherever help is needed.

And they do all this without the beat of any drum, in a flutter of butterfly wings. Nothing stops them, and nothing propels them other than their purest of gold gilded heart.

Angels on Earth, are Angels in Eternity.

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Heart of Gold

He was the pleasantest man I ever knew. Well, I ever met. I didn’t know him. No one did really.

He smiled at everyone. But I never heard him say a word except to Milly, who was waitressing then down at the diner. But it wasn’t his order – he didn’t have to say that. He got the same thing every time, no matter what time of day he came in: Fried egg sandwich, fries, coke. All he said, all I ever heard him say anyway, was “thank you very much”. I suppose at one point he must have told someone his order, because otherwise how would they know. But I never heard it.

One day while he was eating he just fell down dead. Oh, they took him to the hospital. When they got there, they cut open his chest to do surgery or something. That’s when they found it.

Solid, they said. Shiny. Worth about a million dollars. Which was good, because he didn’t have insurance.

Guess he didn’t expect it to break.

 

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That black hole of love

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A gut in endless summersault, a head in spin ... an attack is now. It’s personal. It’s senseless. Humans can be senseless, actions and words can be careless and pointless, even if they come from a place of passion. Whether that’s misguided or not, whether I understand or not, is irrelevant.

Then from nowhere in this tumult that rages as a wild sea, mother instinct kicks in and big sister armour spikes out. The loyal friend shell hardens, ready for any skirmish that may come. Passion heats as a cauldron of boiling oil and the fierceness of the King of the Jungle emerges.

Yet underneath the layers of shields and barbs of thousands, a stomach still wrenches in subterranean caverns, over craggy mountains jagged that scrape any soul bare, through bogs of black and bracken that render all motion, motionless ... those children, leave those children alone!

And suddenly, physical reactions to instincts that aren’t seen give way to a heart that needs no armour, a heart that is the core of existence. A heart knows the depths of love of family and friends where limits are non-existent. A heart knows that in the slightest breath of a whistle call, those hearts will come together to become a black hole of love with its own life force. It’s the black hole of love of the universal family where distance is no barrier and passion is its own entity that runs deep through a complex stratal network that can’t be unravelled.

It’s obvious as we stand to farewell one of our own, that we are who we are, in numbers that double and triple, as beings that reverberate beyond this space. 

And in that moment, the first spike of armour retracts, the shell begins to soften. Fear starts to dissipate into that black hole of love of the universal family, a love that in times of farewell shines from crevices normally submerged. There’s no place for fear when a family unites in invisible armour. Our children are fine. Our armour together is invincible. 

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