All that truly exists arises from a most holy singer. In time, the song arises and subsides – and with it, all things, all this world. Outside of time the song is without beginning or end, without modulation, ever increasing and abundant yet unchanging in infinitude.
Time is the measure of tides of identity. The part of the singer that is not you is the part of yourself you have abandoned. The part of yourself that is not in the singer are false idols that you have raised out of the desire to be superior to all singers.
The flickering shadows of ego aren’t some ancient struggle against the singers of light, though. You are as you were created, always. Unstained and holy, the silent members of the choir only sleep a little while.
The song of creation is ever-present and ever-joyous where the veil is thinnest – here, now, in this place wherever you are. It’s in every darkened horizon and in every vast upward-tumbling sky, every grassy meadow, every chuckling stream. In your dusty bookshelves and the chaotic house of playing, shouting children – the song goes on. The song of creation is life itself, your song, my song.
And sometimes we get quiet, with clogged throats and muffled ears, and strain in silence to hear the song. Then our hearts bleed and our faith leaks out, and we doubt that the music will ever play again. But of course, the song doesn’t diminish when we deafen ourselves. In time, our ears heal and we hear the song again.
Other times, we can’t hear the song but believe in it with whole throbbing chests and ecstatic minds. Then we shout it out to gladden the world, for it rises and overflows our hearts. When that happens, almost always the world quickens to sing with us.
But we remember best those most truthful times when we no longer believed in duality and we sang together as one. When all the children of God struck up that musical praise and brought the song of heaven, the song of creation here to the land of dusty dreams. When the joyful song rings along the village streets and echoes against the green hills, the little meannesses of the muted and deaf dry up. Bleary eyes clear, throats unclog, and we awaken from our enchanted sleep to remember ourselves for a time.
Remember the song of creation, carry it with you everywhere. When your brothers or sisters forget to sing, remind and remember them through your song. When you forget to sing, find those still singing and join them there. This, nothing else, is your role in the song of creation.
In darkened valleys and the clear mountaintops, alone or in a crowd – whenever, however, as best you’re able – just sing. With crushed chest or joyous freedom, sing songs of love and life, joy and grace, forgiveness and miracles. For you are the most holy singer of this, our song of creation.