Knowing is how many of us refer to the messages received from what lies beyond physics. Although it is a voice, it is not one that is audible. Although it is a touch, it is felt not by body but by soul. Most of the knowing I receive is from benevolent loved ones who have traveled ahead farther than I/eyes* can see.
One such loved one was a woman I most often refer to as Grandmother. She was not a relative in blood. We were spiritual kin, more intimate than blood, and I know she silently speaks to me.
I was entrusted as caretaker for her library, a task for which I feel qualified and honored because of our shared passion for the sacredness of the written word. In the second decade after her death, I am still uncovering hidden treasures in books that I am only now discovering as they beckon. Sometimes they call to me from the bookshelf—which had also been hers—during restless hours. Such was the case last night with a collection of writings clothed in gilded crimson entitled, A Grand Time Living, by Don Blanding.
She obviously studied this book, as was usual for her. Notes were scrawled on dogeared pages, passages underlined, and a quotation written inside the front cover served as her own preface: “All Power lies in creative thought. Thought is the key to life; for as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he—“ Emmet Fox. (I researched Emmet Fox to find that the quotation came from his book Power Through Constructive Thinking. Thanks for my next breadcrumb to follow, sweet Grandmother, I wonder where it will lead?)
Blanding's book which I beheld was marked, with a torn sheet of notebook paper so old that the lines are now nearly invisible, at page 104, entitled Hour of Knowing. Above the title she had penned, "Living reaches its ultimate when we attain this."
Grandmother's guiding light is unfailing when my mind swims toward the farthest depths of thought. Her serendipitous voice, from either beyond or within, coaxed forth the very answer to my mind's voiceless questionings in an hour of knowing.
Perhaps it will ease the tension of your anxious heart as it did mine.
Hour of Knowing
This is an hour of stilled knowing
When all the senses hush the clamor of their claims,
When the small insistencies whimper into silence
Like tired children drowsing into sleep,
And the heart knows, knows beyond need of proof
The answers to the mind’s uneasy questionings.
What does the heart know?
That there is a Presence
Vaster than the farthest nebulae
(for they are of It)
Yet more intimate than blood,
(since blood is of Its substance)
Rhythming the pulse’s beat,
Shaping the grain of golden pollen,
Noting a sparrow’s fall,
Signaling a seed its moment of growth
There is a Presence
More patient than Time
(since Time is of It).
Does it not see our tears?
Who but the Presence gave us our tears
To soothe the burning of our strained eyes,
Wearied with watching transient pictures,
Thinking they are Life.
Does it not hear our cries?
Who but the Presence gave us voice to cry aloud our cries,
Easing the tension of our anxious hearts?
Does It not hear our prayers?
All living is an act of prayer.
And the Presence is Life
Let the mind know the tangibles,
Let it measure galaxies and atoms
And the speed of light.
These things are good to know,
But trust the heart to know
Answers to the mind’s voiceless questionings.
Not with ears of flesh
But with the heart’s heart
We hear the voice of God.
*typo, but I'm leaving it as a happy accident!