© 2020 Sophie Malicot
© 2020 French-speaking Association of Readers of the Urantia Book
(February 2020)
In this matter, time is on my side. From the beginning, it was my constant ally, through the same progression with which it endows the world.
I was provided with peaks and sharp points, sharp, like the mountainous reliefs. They stood tall, soaring vertically above the more modest plains. And immediately after, a dizzying fault with abysmal depths. I crossed the eternal snows of the cold of the soul, the frosts of the heart followed immediately by the summer heat, in a rhythm much faster than the movement of the seasons. Passing from one to the other and measuring the intensity of life by the yardstick of contrasts. From frosts to burns, from storms to calms so sluggish that life itself seems at the end of its course. The antagonism of the duels gave the illusion of a stronger, more intense existence. However…
Time, I told you, as a sure ally, only reveals its treasures in agreement with it. It loves harmony and often prefers to take more Congueur and slow down precipitation; thus the perfumes are exhaled more.
The wind on the mountains, the gusts of wind, the tornadoes, and water or snow have allowed the eminent protuberances to be gently eroded. The stumbling blocks have rolled to the bottom of the ravines, filled their gaps and become covered with moss. Some bare faces of their ancestral whiteness reflect the secrets of the heights.
The rain and the wind have topped the ruffled heads of the trees that were a little too proud; they have become fuller in width - to the profile of the birds that nest there happily - and bend more roundly in the spring breeze.
The shaped mountain lets the wind pass; it slides without a trace. The rain flows, pretty, in a thousand intertwined streams. From right to left the flowers come according to the cycles that are due to them.
There is a time when letting go comes into the order of things. So many important considerations have become obsolete, so many active attractions are now futile. Conquests are abandoned, in useless wars.
Life is married better, benevolent. Conversion from a diversion of the forces of life for me to the offering of oneself to the forces of life. I slip into their course. Tiny part of an infinite greatness, each surrounding parcel, each interior particle grows with a greater density.
Vibration. Thin, fine, it is there, in constant presence.
The forces soften, the hands relax from possessions. They open up; having disintegrates in favor of being. Also the more circumscribed actions gain in power and in fragility. The fruit, it is said, When the time of harvest comes, has become sweeter or rotten. Thus with the soul. The thread of the ages makes it more loving or more bitter, according to its attentions or failures to that which makes it live. Silent transformations.
A peace arises; not that of the world taking a breath between two upheavals, but that of Christ, independent of external situations and experienced wherever one is, in the ordinary.
Simple life. Simply be yourself, without artificial facetiousness. A deep silence covers the noises from outside. The soul is the chalice of original Love. It penetrates it, fills it and overflows with abundance to offer itself to the world, to one, to the other, to all as a gift of plenitude.
This evening, the storm rages outside. The wind carries everything away in its violent gusts. The rain whips the windows of my cabin and the drops stream down in long tears. The trees shake, the water streams from the roof in continuous gurgles. Inside, the lights no longer work. A candle on the table, in the center of the room. It’s strange, despite the air infiltrations, it burns without oscillating, motionless.
Sophie MALICOT