by Julia Horn
And the day came when collectively and all at once, humanity was ready to crack wide open and heal its most primal wound—that of being birthed into separation. The violence of that moment—of vulnerable hearts and lungs gasping and grasping, of being torn away from what was comfortable and kind—had been lying dormant in the ocean of their collective unconscious.
But they were ready. For better or worse.
To heal.
And so they simulated paralleling circumstances in their now world to recreate such a schism, as a babe taken from womb.
The process would not be pretty. As with birth, there would be blood, feces, sweat, and tears, and guttural screams from the most cavernous parts of the psyche. They would need to embody extreme isolation in order to feel the web of interconnection. They’d emulate abandonment and despair, and their grief-stricken keening would reverberate for miles around. They would wade through the swampy miasma of their own shadow as they let go of any belief, tenet, or even moral code they held to be true—that everything might be tossed to the winds—shattered and then scattered, to land in a new way.
Upon a new day.
And in the Neutrality, there was nothing to cling to—everyone on every end of every spectrum let down their poised defenses . . .
. . . and the nervous system of the planet took a gigantic exhale.
There was no need for combat in the Neutral. Internal combat, external combat—it disappeared in a breath.
And the following in-breath would spread through the lands, into every heart and every nook and every cranny of every universe.
Now was the time for creativity—to re-envision, reconstruct, and recreate. The structures from days of yore supported the name of separation and at the dawn of this new age, were obsolete. The invitation of healing their deepest scar, this inkless tattoo that branded them all, had come— generations upon generations of people plagued by their sense of separateness—it could not be ignored. They roared down into the caves of time and dug deep.
The invitation was one of Unity—finally and at long last to build a system where their external reality reflected the inner spiritual revolution aching to be born.
And so it was, in the passage from fragmentation to transformation, that they realized what could be. They laid down their shields, locked irises, and dissolved the grip on their uniqueness just enough to feel and dance with the pulsation of life.
The synchronized lub-dub of momma and child that exists in utero was here. Always had been. They felt safe and at peace in the amniotic fluids that were their surroundings. The umbilical cord of the heart connected inner and outer worlds, and left them nourished—body, mind, and soul—everyone and everything, without exception.
The violent division had been mended—people and planet were One.
Dub. Lub.
