A dozen different images are flashing through my head
To try and make sense of them
I pick up my pen
Breathing slows
As concentration flows
Silently I’m deciphering
The hieroglyphs of my soul
*we pay so much attention to the brain. It’s most brilliant function is as a problem solver. It loves a riddle but you have to be careful how you use it.
To illuminate just one small instance, they say in order to change your life you should ask your brain a question about yourself or circumstances that will provide a positive answer.
What if? Should be framed carefully.
What if today is going to be the most wonderful day?
What if I am not working to my full potential on this passion of mine? What more can I do to deliver brilliant outcomes?
What if being woken ridiculously early by a persistent (and loud) Willy Wag tail every morning is actually my spirit animal calling me forth to thrive? Need more coffee…
You can feel the positive effects of what ifs when applied this way.
I won’t go into “what if?” applied in a negative fashion, because frankly I go there all to easily and can guarantee that it is not a helpful way to think.
All of which has nothing to do with my poem, because the brain is an entirely different language to that of our inner being, that force of nature that gifts us with life.
The brain is a brilliant computer.
The soul is not a computer, it is the person who built our computer. From the inside out.
Our souls enter this world, before we are a body or brain. At the same time that the sperm meets the egg 💥 there is a massive flash of energy and a soul enters the cell that will go on to become a body, a brain. Perhaps. I like to think so anyway. Science has now been able to witness this previously secretive moment. I found parts of this book (which is free) by Doctor Courtney Hunt MD quite compelling.
Regardless, the soul is who we are at our innermost kernel, the rest came later.
The land of the soul is the subconscious. That mysterious place which speaks so eloquently, yet mysteriously at night. Vivid, amazing dreams which we try and piece together with our rational computer the next morning.
Each night we become (arguably) insane (some people may ponder that we are actually more sane without the trappings of habit and ego). In the morning our brain becomes the psychiatrist trying to analyse what on earth happened.
Which is like trying to describe blue to a blind person.
We need an interpreter.
A Rosetta Stone that breaches the gap between conscious and subconscious, rational and spiritual.
Something that reads the dreams and hieroglyphs and allows them to make sense.
Poetry.
Poetry allows me to understand, interpret and reflect upon the things which are mine to know. We are all given knowledge which seems to be just ours, through lessons that are personally tailored to grow out our shrunken places. To pinpoint weaknesses and fortify them.
If you want to understand this life and your place within it – poetry.
