Summary
The Celestial Visitor's Human Experience
Highlights
Sensory Awakening on the Shore
A celestial being finds himself standing on a beach, overwhelmed by the sensory details of the physical world. He experiences the taste of salt, the sensation of the wind against his skin, and the pull of the wet sand beneath his feet. He is transfixed by the horizon where the dark ocean meets the night sky, a sight that reminds him of his desire to transcend his current form.
The Limitations of a Singular Form
As his body begins to feel the discomfort of being singular, he struggles with the physical constraints of humanity. Unlike his true, expansive form that engulfs and transcends, his human body feels foreign and restrictive. He experiences the panic of being an individual, separated from the collective consciousness and the constant, comforting white noise of his celestial kin.
Despair and the Search for Meaning
In a moment of intense fear and confusion, he wonders if he is dying, overwhelmed by the beating of his own heart and the emergence of tears. He contemplates his state, questioning his actions and seeking guidance from the Divine. Through the struggle, he realizes that he is not being destroyed but rather tasked with a specific, lingering memory of the human condition.
Embracing the Human Condition
He resolves to anchor his experience in the physical world, finding value in the coarseness of sand and the reality of his suffering. He commits to remembering these sensations—the act of touching, the feeling of despair, and the act of crying—as he prepares to return to the Host. He concludes with the realization that the capacity for weeping is essential for true sight.
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Original text
A full moon hangs heavy in the clear, star spangled night sky and there’s salt on the wind. His tongue darts out over dry cracked lips and captures a burst of crisp ocean flavor, tangy and light and new. He can feel it on his skin, the dry breeze crashing against him like waves on the shore and clogging his ears with the rush. It makes his clothing flap and reminds him of how it sounds when he flies. The body, his body, is rooted in wet sand. If he stays perfectly still it will suck him down down down with every ebb and flow of water over his feet. He likes the unyielding dependability so he stands, transfixed by the expanse of undulating blue blackness before him.
He had always been told that the earth was blue and green. It isn’t a lie but he’s unprepared for the perfect fusion of dark sky and ocean on the horizon. The effect would be disconcerting if not for the rippling reflection of the moon to mark the separation. He wants to free himself from the confines of his human vessel, to stretch out and kiss forever with the tips of his celestial being. He sees tomorrow and tomorrow, endless, assured and reassured eternity before him and it is good.
Suddenly his eyes burn and his chest is on fire. He feels over the flesh and muscle but there are no flames, only discomfort and something invisible pressing down, making it hard to breathe. His fingers are stiff with lack of practice and he bends them at the knuckle, flexing them over and over again, awestruck. He doesn’t have appendages in his true form with which to grasp and take, to travel firmly in one direction, to dig down into the ground and feel the earth on him and around him. No, he is and was and will be. In his true form he engulfs and envelopes, transcends and consumes, there is no containing and distinguishing him from other manifestations.
He begins to panic, what is this strange and foreign oneness? He is no longer all, but singular. Unique. Individual. Alone.
Not alone.
He hears the distant murmur, the ever present white noise of heavenly chatter ringing in the deep recesses of his mind and is overwhelmed by the calming convergence of truth and faith. Perhaps it’s too much, perhaps there’s a desire for less, to disconnect for just a moment, to genuinely and wholly embrace the silent magnitude of this momentary humanity, to really feel and understand the sever between these creatures and the Host.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine it, tries to shut out the voices of his brothers and sisters, to ignore the song reverberating in his ears, cut himself off from the safety of home, be at peace, at peace, peace.
No.
Opens his eyes.
Looks around.
Do they know?
What has he done?
He falls to his knees, the entire vessel quivering around him, fighting to contain him. The burning in his eyes returns, this time accompanied by a strange wetness. His heart is beating so fast. Is this what human death feels like? Confusing and frightening and moist? He deserves it. He deserves every horrible second of suffering.
Repent then and turn to God so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.
Yes, Father.
He is not smote. He is not dying.
He looks up through the tears in his eyes and blinks the blur away. Once. Twice. He sucks in a deep breath, tasting bitter air again, digging his knees and fingers and toes into the sand, steeling himself resolutely.
Don’t do that again.
No. He won’t. He won’t do that again…
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
He lifts his face and feels the wind in his hair this time. Pushes himself up off the ground and rubs his thumb and forefinger together over rough grains of sand.
Remember this touch.
He will and when he is back in the cool embrace of the Host he will recall the coarseness of the earth and remember, when he is watching, what it felt like to have fingers.
What it felt like to despair.
What it felt like to cry.
He’s not sure why but he knows this will be important later.
Those who do not weep do not see.