I grew wings.
Not to learn how
to fly, but rather
how to catch myself
as I fall.
The wings
are—were—
a light.
Radiating
from the divine,
within
you–me–we.
A light that shimmers.
A light that blossoms.
A light that stays
attuned, aware.
Yet unshakably focused,
wildly resilient.
Our light is a web,
too dim alone,
yet a connected stream—
a current
illuminating
the river of our veins.
Your light. Our light.
Never has it been
so vital
as right now:
the now of your breath.
Of you witnessing
letters forming words,
words forging sentences
for your consciousness
to give meaning—
to usher our relation.
An awareness of stories,
casting a blanket
upon the mind’s eye.
Smoldering,
coaxing you to take shape,
forcing an existence
so clearly broken.
Witnessing this grip,
you wisely slide
to the top of the hand,
gaining perspective—
the steps,
the platform,
the seat.
To wake up, look up.
Yes, really look up.
There’s an entire world
out there,
not here,
where you’re bound
to a story
suffocating your soul.
You let out a long exhale,
giving just enough space
for that curious voice to speak…
It quietly whispers,
When can I fly?
Your soul smiles
a gracious grin.
As soon as you remember—
you already have wings.
Emergence with Rachel Weissman is weekly essays on human potential for regenerative progress — interlacing art & design, ecology, futurism, human potential, mystical wisdom, and technology.
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