Episode 14: Pointing Toward the Moon: Seeing the Forest for the Trees

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Mentioned in this episode:

• The Zen parable of the finger pointing toward the moon and why the teaching is not the truth itself
• Why stories, symbols, scripture, and even our understanding of Jesus can become pointers toward a deeper relationship with God
• What the moon can teach us about the soul, reflection, hiddenness, and trusting what we cannot always see
• How The Handless Maiden, Perceval, and Dame Ragnell each point toward agency, emotional armor, sovereignty, and restored relationship
• Why stories often help us see other people before they help us see ourselves
• The question that turns the finger back toward us: Where is this in me?
• How anxious attachment can keep us looking outside ourselves for reassurance, safety, and the feeling of being chosen
• What a silver-handed marriage can look like from the inside, even when the outer life appears intact
• How loving everyone else while abandoning ourselves can become its own form of self-loss
• The difference between taking responsibility for someone else’s choices and reclaiming our own agency inside a painful pattern
• What it means to stop waiting for someone else to change and begin growing our own hands back
• The inner relationship between feminine knowing and masculine action
• Why sovereignty also means allowing other people the freedom not to change
• The kind of relationship that becomes possible when neither person has to abandon themselves in order to be loved
• A personal story about trusting an inner knowing before the outer world confirmed it
• Why rejecting unhealthy relationship dynamics is not the same thing as rejecting men
• How women growing their hands back may also invite men into their own wilderness and healing
• What the wounded king reveals about the difference between outer power and inner wholeness
• Why wholeness is not about becoming independent enough to need no one, but integrated enough that no part of us has to be exiled
• How the stories can help the inner and outer life begin to match
• Why healing is not only about hearing our inner knowing, but finding the courage to act on it
• And the deeper question beneath all the stories: what happens when relationship is broken, and what becomes possible when it is restored?

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Prefer to read?

The full episode transcript is below.

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Hi Friends,

Welcome to Know Thy Soul, where we explore the stories, symbols, and truths that help us have eyes to see.

Today, I want to zoom out for a little while and look at all the stories we’ve gathered so far. And, fittingly, we’re going to do that through an old Zen parable.

A young student once went to a spiritual teacher and said, “I’ve studied the scriptures. I’ve learned the teachings. I can explain all of it. But I still haven’t found peace. Can you just show me the truth?”

The teacher didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her hand and pointed toward the full moon rising in the distance.

The student looked at her finger. He studied the shape of it, the way it was bent, even the fingernail.

Finally, the teacher lowered her hand and asked, “Did you see the moon?”

And the student said, “No. I was looking at your finger.”

So the teacher pointed again. This time, the student followed the direction of the finger and looked beyond it.

And there was the moon. Bright, full, impossible to miss once he actually looked.

“I see it,” the student said.

And the teacher asked, “Are you still looking at my finger?”

“No,” the student said. “The finger is only showing me where to look.”

And that was the lesson. The finger was never the thing he was meant to see. It was only pointing toward it.

But the teacher took it one step further, because even the moon could become another thing to study. Another idea to understand. Another object outside of himself.

The student had spent his whole life looking for the next teaching, the next answer, the next thing that would finally give him truth.

And the teacher was inviting him to stop looking for the next thing and turn his attention back toward himself. Toward the one who was looking. Toward the awareness beneath all the searching.

And I think that is the part of the story that matters most for us.

Because the teachings can point. The scriptures can point. The stories can point. The symbols can point.
But eventually, we have to stop staring at the finger and look where it is pointing.

And I love that the image in this story is the moon. There is a reason I picked it to be the Know Thy Soul logo. I have felt a strong connection to the moon my entire life, for those of you into astrology, I even have an exalted moon in my astrology chart.

But long before it became part of this podcast, the moon has carried meaning across cultures and traditions.

It has been associated with the feminine, intuition, mystery, cycles, the unseen world, and the parts of ourselves we can only begin to perceive when we become quiet enough to notice them.

And unlike the sun, the moon does not generate its own light. It reflects light, just as the stories reflect a part of us.

They are not the source of the sacred, but they can help reflect something back to us. Something we may not have been able to see clearly before. A place where the light of God becomes visible in a form we can begin to perceive.

And unlike the sun, which appears relatively constant to us from day to day, the moon is always changing in the way it reveals itself.

Sometimes it is full and unmistakable. Sometimes only the smallest sliver is visible. Sometimes we find it in the daytime sky. More often, we notice it in the darkness of night. And sometimes we cannot see it at all.

There is even an entire side of the moon we never see from Earth.

Not because it isn’t there, but because of the way the moon moves in relationship with us, one side is always turned away.

And I wonder if we are like that too.

There are parts of ourselves that are easy to see. Parts we have named, understood, maybe even worked on for years.

And then there are parts that remain turned away from us. Not gone. Not absent. Just outside our current field of vision.

Sometimes it takes a story, a relationship, a wound, or a season of life to reveal what has been there all along.

But its absence from our sight does not mean it is gone.

Our relationship with the soul is like that too.

There are times when our inner knowing feels obvious. Times when we can feel ourselves deeply connected to God, to life, to whatever name we give the sacred.

And there are other times when we can barely see a sliver of it. Times when we feel lost, disconnected, exiled from ourselves.

But like the moon, it was never actually gone. We simply could not see the light from where we were standing.

We had not lost our connection to it. We had lost our faith that it was still there when we could no longer see it.

And that is where the stories come in. They don’t become the moon, but they point toward it and help us remember where to look.

Whether it’s the Handless Maiden’s missing hands, Perceval’s armor, or Dame Ragnell’s question about sovereignty, none of those images are the point in themselves. They’re pointing us toward something deeper.

The teaching of the Zen parable is essentially this: do not mistake the thing pointing toward truth for the truth itself.

The Handless Maiden isn’t the destination. Neither is Perceval, Dame Ragnell, or Sir Gawain. Even scripture can become a finger when we become so focused on the words, interpretations, and doctrines surrounding it that we forget to look toward the reality those words are trying to reveal.

Jesus actually says something remarkably similar in John 5:39-40: “You search the scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that testify on my behalf. Yet you refuse to come to me to have life.”

He is speaking to religious leaders who know the scriptures intimately, and yet he is telling them that they can know the words and still miss what the words are pointing toward.

In other words, even scripture can become the finger. We can become so consumed with studying the words that we forget to look where they are pointing.

And I think even our understanding of Jesus can become another finger if we become more attached to the image we’ve formed of him than to the deeper relationship with God his life and teachings invite us into. Because Jesus doesn’t only talk about his own relationship with God. In John 17, he prays that we might experience that relationship too: “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us.”

He isn’t describing a God who remains somewhere outside of us, accessible only through someone else. He is praying for a kind of union. That we might participate in the same divine relationship he is describing between himself and the Father.

And it’s worth remembering that so much of his teaching came through parables and stories in the first place.

And all of these stories and symbols are pointing toward something.

But what are they pointing toward?

We’ve spent months looking closely at individual stories, almost like standing in front of one tree at a time. But every once in a while, we have to step back far enough to see the forest they are forming together.

The Handless Maiden gave us a way to see what happens when we become disconnected from our own ability to choose, create, and act on what we know, and what happens when we slowly begin to grow that capacity back.

Perceval showed us what happens when we put armor between ourselves and the world. We can become incredibly good at functioning, achieving, and following the rules, while still not knowing how to sit beside a wound and ask, What ails you?

And Dame Ragnell showed us something about sovereignty. About the choices no one else can make for us, and the part of us that has to be allowed to say, This is what I want. This is what I choose.

Maybe one of the things all of these stories have been showing us is that everything comes back to relationship.

Our relationship with ourselves. Our relationship with God. Our relationship with one another. Even the relationship between the masculine and feminine within us.

The stories may look like they are about very different things. But underneath them is the same question: what happens when relationship is broken, and what becomes possible when it is restored?

And this is why I keep returning to stories. Not because I think a fairy tale written hundreds of years ago has the answer to your life. And not because I think scripture, mythology, psychology, or any teacher should tell you exactly what something means.

They’re maps. They’re symbols. They’re fingers pointing toward the moon.

But here’s something else I’ve noticed about stories. They often help us see someone else before they help us see ourselves.

I was talking to a listener recently, and she told me that one of the stories we’d explored made her see her mother. I knew exactly what she meant, because stories are incredibly good at helping us recognize other people, especially the person we’ve decided is the antagonist.

We hear about someone who has lost her hands and think of the friend who never seems able to make a decision for herself, or the woman who keeps asking everyone else what she should do. We meet someone covered in armor and immediately think of the partner who shuts down when things get emotional, or the father who never learned how to talk about what he feels.

We hear about someone giving away another person’s right to choose and think of the parent who still tries to make decisions for an adult child, the spouse who assumes they know what’s best, or the person who keeps crossing boundaries while insisting they’re only trying to help.

Stories make it incredibly easy to spot the pattern in someone else. And often that recognition is useful.

But eventually, the story starts asking a much harder question:

Where is this in me?

There’s an old saying that when you point one finger at someone else, three fingers are pointing back at you. And in a way, that feels like the hidden side of the same image we opened with.

One finger points outward toward the moon. Three point back toward us.

Maybe stories work the same way. At first, they let us look outward, toward the maiden, Perceval, or Ragnell.

Then almost immediately, we start attaching the pattern to the people and systems around us. Our mother. Our father. Our partner. Our ex. Our church. Our culture.

But eventually, if we’re willing, the story turns back toward us and asks: Where is this in me?

And I’ll give you one very real example of how this has shown up in my own life.

If you haven’t already guessed, I tend toward anxious attachment. For me, that has often meant looking outside myself for reassurance, bending over backwards to meet someone else’s needs, and hoping that if I could just love well enough, give enough, understand enough, eventually I would feel chosen, seen, and safe.

And I have often found myself in relationships with a more avoidant attachment dynamic on the other side. So for a very long time, it was easy for me to point outward and see the problem there. I could see the distance. I could see where my feelings weren’t being met. I could see the lack of emotional availability. And because I could see it, my instinct was often to try to fix it.

What took me much longer to see was what the other three fingers were pointing toward.

If the partnership outside of me wasn’t caring for what I felt and knew, where was I doing the same thing inside myself?

That question hurt more, because I eventually realized that while my feminine was begging for someone outside of me to rescue her, there was also a masculine within me that had learned to avoid her. He had left the castle. I could feel what was true and then override it. I could know something wasn’t right and stay anyway. I could hear the voice within me and still ask the outside world to tell me whether I was allowed to trust it.

The thing I kept asking another person to do for me was, in many ways, the thing I had not yet learned to do for myself.

A few episodes ago, I told you that eventually I would tell you where I am in these stories. And of all the stories we’ve explored so far, The Handless Maiden is the one I recognize most clearly in my own adult life.

I lived for almost 20 years in what I now understand as a silver-handed marriage. From the outside, there were beautiful things. There was a life that looked intact.

And I think now about Jesus asking, “What does it profit us to gain the whole world and lose our own soul?”
Because that is what it felt like.

I had so much of what the outside world told me should make a life complete, and yet inside that life, I felt like my soul was draining out of my body a little more every day that I stayed.

I had learned to override what I felt, silence what I knew, and keep functioning inside a life that looked intact while something in me was slowly going numb.

And the irony was that I was still loving everyone around me so deeply. I was paying close attention to their feelings, their needs, their comfort, trying so hard not to hurt anyone.

But in the process, I was completely abandoning my own.

I was loving everyone but myself.

I think this is part of what I meant when we talked earlier about deficiency-love. A relationship that requires one person to disappear in order to keep functioning isn’t love in its fullest form.

And for a long time, I thought the problem was entirely outside of me. I could see all the ways I wasn’t being heard. All the ways my feelings weren’t being considered. All the things I wished he would do differently.

And many of those things were real. The thing I was pointing to was real.

But eventually, the three fingers pointing back toward me revealed another truth and the questions I hadn’t been asking:

Why was I still participating in a relationship that required me to abandon so much of myself?
Why was I chasing someone who was never willing to put down his armor?
Why was I staying with someone who was never willing to meet me in the emotional depth and mutuality I kept reaching for?

And maybe the hardest question of all:

Why did I keep believing that if I just loved harder, gave more, explained myself better, became more understanding, more patient, more accommodating, that eventually he would become capable of meeting me there?
Those questions changed everything.

The painful truth was that I had spent years trying to solve outside of me what I was being asked to heal within me.

That doesn’t mean his choices were right. It doesn’t mean they were acceptable. And it doesn’t mean I was responsible for them.

What it does mean is that I had to become willing to look at my own choices too.

My choice to keep abandoning myself while waiting for him to change was mine. And that realization was painful. But it was also the beginning of freedom.

It wasn’t about deciding that what happened was my fault. It was about recognizing that I had agency inside the pattern too. I couldn’t make another person listen to me. I couldn’t make him change. I couldn’t make him go into his own wilderness.

But I could stop abandoning myself while I waited for him to put down the armor and become capable of meeting me in the kind of relationship I kept reaching for. And that was when I began to see something much harder.

Eventually, I birthed a new spiritual version of myself, and that version of me could no longer remain in that dynamic. In the years that followed, I began what felt very much like my own journey into the Here All Dwell Free House.

I stopped making my healing dependent upon whether anyone around me changed. I stopped believing I could love someone into doing their own work. And little by little, I grew my hands back by returning to what I felt, what I knew, what I wanted, and what I was willing to choose.

And while the maiden spends seven years in the Here All Dwell Free House growing her hands back, the king spends seven years searching for her in the wilderness.

And in my inner world, my masculine had to make that journey through the wilderness too.

He had to stop overriding what she knew. He had to stop looking to the outside world to tell him what was real. He had to question the beliefs he had inherited and the rules he had spent a lifetime following without ever asking whether they were true.

And slowly, he had to learn how to listen to her. To believe her. To trust what she was telling him.

And eventually, to become a fierce protector of what she feels and knows to be true. He offered her sovereignty.

He had to find her again. Not the woman she had been before the exile, but the woman she had become in the wilderness. The woman who had grown her hands back. The woman who no longer needed him to tell her who she was.

And when he finally found her, he didn’t find her alone. She had their child with her.

The life that had been born through all of that grief, all of that exile, all of that becoming. And together, they returned to the castle. Not as the same masculine and feminine who had left it. But as two parts of me that had finally learned how to live in right relationship with each other. Thinking and feeling, operating in harmony together.

But that inner reunion did not instantly rearrange my outer life.

The soul can know something before the circumstances around us are ready to reflect it. We can become whole inside and still be living among the consequences of choices, relationships, and structures that were built before that wholeness returned. I had to carry the cross of the old life.

So while something in me had already come home, my physical life is still catching up.

In the outer world, I am still somewhere between the maiden growing her hands back and the king completing his journey and finding her.

And I want to be clear about something. In my own story, the king I started with will not be the king I return with.

And we’ll eventually come across other stories that reflect something similar, where the human relationship falls away and the woman’s deeper union is with the divine.

Some people are not willing to enter the wilderness. Some people are not willing to put down their armor, face the wound, or make the journey toward themselves.

Scripture even warns us about becoming “unequally yoked,” a phrase that has often been interpreted simply as being with someone who does not share your faith.

But I wonder if there is a deeper relational truth there too.

What happens when two people are moving in fundamentally different directions? When one person is willing to question themselves, enter the wilderness, and grow, while the other is committed to remaining exactly where they are?

And as Dame Ragnell taught us, sovereignty means we have to allow other people the freedom to make that choice too. God gave all of us free will. We can invite. We can love. We can point toward the water. But we cannot make another person drink.

I don’t know if there will be a man who has traveled far enough into his own wilderness to meet me in the kind of relationship I believe we were created for, the only kind of relationship my inner masculine is willing to protect now. One where neither person asks the other to abandon themselves for love, and neither is trying to control, rescue, or complete the other.

A relationship where both people can remain sovereign and still choose one another. Where both are willing to do their own inner work, take responsibility for their own wounds, and stay connected to themselves while loving each other. One built on emotional presence, mutuality, truth, and a willingness to keep growing.

Only time will tell. But I promise, if I ever find the kind of love these stories keep pointing toward, I’ll take you along for that chapter too.

But my feminine can spot avoidant attachment, red flags, and deficiency-love like a hawk now. And my masculine has finally learned to trust her enough to protect me from what she already knows isn’t right for me.

Let me give you an example.

A few years ago, I was out to dinner with three single friends. My seat happened to face the bar, and there were two men sitting there having dinner together.

One of them turned completely around to look at me at least half a dozen times during the meal. It was anything but subtle.

And he was very attractive.

But something in me knew almost immediately: there is no way this is the kind of guy for me.

When dinner ended, my three friends wanted to go sit at the bar and have a drink. None of them had even noticed what had been happening with this guy.

I could have easily gone with them.

And honestly, the last time I was single, I definitely would have. I would have stayed too long. I would have enjoyed the attention. I would have flirted because, at that point in my life, I still craved any attention from a man.

But this time was different.

I had no interest in sitting at a bar making small talk with someone just because he found me attractive. Surface-level banter doesn’t do much for me anymore.

And more importantly, something in me was already saying no.

So I went home.

The next day, one of my friends filled me in on what happened after I left. She told me about these two guys at the bar who had bought them drinks, and one of them had specifically asked about me and where I had gone.

And then she said, “Yeah, but he was married.”

And I remember thinking, of course he was.

Not because I had any evidence. Not because I had figured it out logically. I just knew there was something about him that wasn’t right for me.

And the next day, the outer world simply confirmed what something inside me had already known.

That’s what I mean when I say my feminine can spot the red flags, the avoidant attachment, and the deficiency-love from a mile away now. And my masculine believes her. He protects me from the people and situations she already knows are not right for me.

One man I went on exactly one date with, accused me of being a man-hater.

And I can actually understand how a man might come to that conclusion when he meets a woman who is no longer willing to center her life around being chosen by one. A woman who is no longer willing to tolerate dynamics that may have been normalized for generations.

But the truth is, I don’t hate men.

What I hate are the relationship dynamics so many of us have been taught to accept as normal. Dynamics where women are expected to accommodate, soothe, bend, wait, explain, forgive, and keep the relationship functioning while slowly disappearing inside of it.

And I think more and more women are beginning to say, this isn’t working for us anymore.

Not because we don’t want love.

Because we want mutuality.

We want relationships where both people are doing the inner work. Where both people are emotionally present. Where both people are willing to look at their own wounds instead of asking the other person to carry them.

And if that kind of relationship isn’t available, more women seem willing to remain single rather than return to one that requires them to abandon themselves.

In the language of The Handless Maiden, it feels to me like a lot of women are in solitude in the Here All Dwell Free House, growing their hands back.

And while much of the world may see that solitude as a tragedy, I believe it is actually part of how collective healing begins.

Because sometimes a woman growing her hands back means she stops accommodating the very dynamics that required her to abandon herself and allowed someone else to remain unchanged.

She stops cushioning the consequences. She stops over-functioning. She stops translating, soothing, waiting, explaining, and carrying the emotional weight for both people.

And when she does that, the other person is finally left with a choice.

They can remain where they are.

Or they can enter the wilderness too.

They can put down the armor. Enter the wilderness. Learn how to feel, listen, and meet women in a relationship built on mutuality instead of hierarchy.

And maybe that is one of the deeper gifts of women growing their hands back. We are not rejecting men. We are refusing to keep participating in the kind of relationship that allows both of us to remain wounded.

I don’t think the answer is women learning not to need men. I think it is women refusing to lose themselves in order to have one. There’s a difference.

And perhaps that refusal is part of what eventually calls both of us into something better.

Because remember, even when it appears that men hold the power, so many of our stories place a deeply wounded king at the center of that outer power.

He may have the castle. He may have the title. He may have the authority. And still, something inside him is suffering.

We see the consequences of that wound everywhere. In isolation. In addiction. In rage. In the inability to ask for help, to feel grief, to be vulnerable, or to form the kind of relationships that might actually sustain him.

So I don’t think the old system has served men particularly well either.

Women growing their hands back is not only an invitation for women to become whole, it is also an invitation for the wounded king to finally begin his own journey.

I have no idea if there is a man out there who has gone as deeply into his own inner world as I have. That’s the part I have to release. I have to trust, wait, and keep doing the things I came here to do.

Am I happy without a man? Yes, absolutely.

Would I welcome a man who has gone through his own wilderness and is capable of meeting me there? Of course.

Because I do think loving and being loved in that kind of relationship is one of the greatest gifts available to us. And I also think it is much rarer than we like to admit.

I have never experienced that kind of love personally. But I know enough now to know that I am no longer willing to settle for something that requires me to abandon myself in order to have it.

If a man comes into my life, I want the kind of love these stories keep pointing toward.

One where both of us have done enough of our own inner work that neither person has to disappear for the relationship to survive.

But I do know this: nothing could replace the woman I have become on the way here. And maybe that is part of what the finger has been pointing toward all along.

A life where the inner and the outer begin to match. Where what I know inwardly is reflected in the life I am actually living. The moon and the sun. The unseen and the seen.

I trust myself now in a way I never did before. I know I can survive disappointment. I know I can survive being misunderstood. I know I can survive someone choosing not to meet me where I am.

I know I can handle whatever life asks of me because I am no longer abandoning myself in the middle of it.

I know what it feels like when something inside me says no. I know what it feels like when something inside me says yes. And I know how to not just listen but also to act on that inner listening.

I know how to follow my inner knowing even when the outer world does not understand it yet. I know how to leave what asks me to betray myself. I know how to stay with what is true.

And maybe most importantly, I know I no longer need someone else to validate what I already know in order for it to be real.

I think that is one of the reasons I love the work I do with women now. So often, they come in thinking they need me to tell them what to do.

And almost always, somewhere beneath the fear, the conditioning, and the noise, they already know.

My job is not to hand them the answer. It is to help them hear themselves again, and then find the courage to act on what they hear.

And with the men I’ve worked with, the work can look a little different, but the invitation is often similar: to slow down enough to feel what has been buried, to listen beneath the armor, and to become more honest about what is actually happening within them.

That, to me, is what growing your hands back looks like.

I don’t need a partnership to rescue me. I don’t need one to complete me. Would I welcome one? Absolutely.
But the masculine within me is no longer willing to abandon the feminine within me in order to have one.

If I walk beside someone again, it will be someone willing to put down his own armor, enter his own wilderness, and recover his own capacity to feel.

That is what the stories have done for me.

They first gave me a way to see what was happening around me. And then, slowly, painfully, beautifully, they gave me a way to see what was happening within me.

And what I found there was not a broken woman who needed to become someone else.

I found parts of myself that had been separated from one another.

A feminine who knew, but had stopped trusting what she knew.

A masculine who could act, protect, and build, but had learned to take his direction from the outside world instead of from within.

Wholeness, for me, has been the work of bringing those parts back into relationship.

Not making one more important than the other. Not letting the masculine override the feminine. Not asking the feminine to remain powerless while she waits to be rescued. But allowing them to listen to one another, trust one another, and move together.

And the more those parts of me have come back into relationship, the more I have felt myself coming back into relationship with God.

Because if the soul is our direct connection to the sacred, then every time we abandon what we know at the deepest level, we are not only abandoning ourselves.

We are stepping away from that connection.

And every time we return to what is true within us, every time we listen more deeply, every time we stop betraying ourselves in order to belong, something in us comes home.

Isn’t this what wholeness really is? Not becoming perfect. Not becoming independent enough to never need anyone. But becoming integrated enough that no part of us has to be exiled in order for another part to survive.

And from that place, relationship with another person is no longer about completion. It becomes an expression of wholeness meeting wholeness. Soul meeting soul.

And maybe that is what the stories have been pointing toward all along.

Not away from us. But through us. Back toward the sacred within. Back toward God. Back toward home.

Maybe the moon isn’t an interpretation at all.

Maybe the moon is the moment the story reflects something within you that was already there.

Something about your life. Something about your wound. Something about the way you love or the way you protect yourself.

Something about God.

Something about you.

The danger comes when we begin studying the finger instead of looking where it’s pointing.

We can argue over what a story means. We can argue over the correct interpretation of scripture. We can memorize what a teacher said, adopt a psychological framework, learn all the right language, and still never turn our attention toward our own lives.

We can know everything about the finger and never once look up and ask the questions that heal, like:

What is this pointing toward in me?

What do I already know?

What am I feeling that I keep trying to explain away?

Where have I lost my hands?

Where am I still wearing armor?

Where am I waiting for someone else to give me permission to choose?

We’ve spent months looking at individual threads.

And maybe this is where we finally step back far enough to see the forest for the trees.

Because the point was never to collect the symbols.

The point was to let the symbols reflect something back to us.

Maybe that’s what all of these stories have been doing.

Not giving us something new to believe. Not telling us who to become. Helping us see what was already there.

And then pointing us home.

Back toward the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten.

Back toward the questions we stopped asking.

Back toward the voice we stopped trusting.
Back toward the sacred within us.

Back toward the soul.

Back toward God.

And ultimately, back home.

Until next time, my friends.

May you know thy soul.

It already knows the way.