This morning as I was sitting in my basement next to the boiler for heat while drinking my coffee, I was feeling a different kind of warmth within myself. It's a difficult-to-articulate tingling warmth radiating through my being like sunlight on my skin, but emanating from the cells themselves.
Even more baffling, it feels magnetic as if pulling me towards something—but it's not towards a thing... it's towards a state. It's not a pull of need. It's a pull of patient, insistent love. It's... wooing.
It's the living "woo" at the heart of the "woo" that society has dismissed.
It's the sweet, entrancing melody that can only be heard emanating from being, buried beneath thoughts and the endless distractions of the world.
It's the siren song that lures your ego to its death, the moth to immolation in the flame, the soul towards its Source.
And it never gives up. It never stops.
No matter how many times you turn away.
No matter how many times you plug your ears.
No matter how many times it gets drowned out.
It has a quality to it that I can only describe as "pleased"—"delighted", even.
It feels like the smile of a loved one when you catch their gaze, and yet even that fails to compare.
No words will ever do, yet I paradoxically still try to articulate, hoping to convey that yes, this is real and yes, you can experience this too. It's not outside of you. When it's said that "happiness comes from within", this is that Source—and it's there in everyone, calling out to them sweetly from their own depths, wooing them back.
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