Starting out, I must admit to myself that I may be writing primarily to an audience of angels, archetypes, and compassionate spirits – and not so many actual people.
An audience of angels, archetypes, and compassionate spirits – that wouldn’t be so bad. I imagine them peering over the shoulders of absentee readers, as well as anybody who might actually chance upon these paragraphs.
So what does it take to attract an audience of angels, archetypes, and compassionate spirits? It’s not like they have nothing better to do than to attend to the affairs of this small human (though I often know they are about). I fancy that, to some extent – like God – angels and spirits can multitask.
When I was a child of five years, I remember asking adults how it was that God kept watch over all the people, all at the same time. I don’t recall receiving an answer. I was probably told to go outside and play. That left me to my imagination. I imagined God on a celestial cloud surrounded by stars. In front of God was a huge television. A large television in those days had a 21-inch screen. God’s television was much larger. I didn’t label the size, but I believe that I was probably giving God a television with a 60-inch screen (almost unimaginably huge). I never dreamed that television could otherwise be so large. With his giant television, God could direct his view as he chose, watching groups of people simultaneously or focusing in on a single soul. In my mind, God could switch locations with a gesture (I never imagined as a child that God’s television would resemble the Internet). God could flash-view, or take his time – rather like Zeus and the Gods of Mount Olympus peering down on earthly events through their all-seeing pool of water. No, I hadn’t heard of Zeus as a five-year-old, but this analogy for my view of God’s television is a good one.
So, God could see me whenever he wanted to. But did he want to? That seemed like an important question. Did God require of himself to always be watching humans with his special TV, or were there times he preferred chasing celestial butterflies with his favorite angels? Given a choice, I knew I’d rather chase butterflies.
Does God prefer Beauty to the drama of humans? With God, it probably isn’t either/or, but how about angels and spirits? Assuming that a five-year-old mistakes angels and spirits for God (really, who can properly conceptualize God), it seems like a fair question. What makes us attractive to compassionate spirits? I didn’t answer the question then and I’m not likely to answer it with definitive authority now, some 50 years later.
But there may be something here to contemplate. It is possible that the poetry of butterflies and Beauty is attractive to spirits. I imagine fairies riding mythic clouds and rainbows that parade as notes flowing from my speakers as music. I know there are compassionate spirits nearby as I dance, or sing, or kneel and kiss the ground. And right now, in this very moment, I’m chasing swallowtails and monarchs with my pen and keyboard. Isn’t that more interesting than just staring at a static screen?
The practice of attracting angels and spirits could be likened to the gesture of planting flowers for hummingbirds. Bee balm, salvia, impatiens…the choice is yours – your contribution to the flow of Beauty. Perhaps, like a Monty Python animation, the Earth will sprout hands instead of flowers. When we are planting our work, something may eventually grow.
A mode. A vehicle. The transmutation of pollen into honey. Writing is like praying creatively out loud or coming into complete silence – it gathers emphasis. The lightest possible tap on my shoulder tells me I am not alone.