|Gandhi Bleeding by Russel Hulsey.|
What heroes will arrive on this planet from unknown realms and truly lift lives out of the dank gutters our destructive force of will has created?
Where do the great men and women live? Where are the halls of Valhala from whence demi-Gods, those who act human but whose actions we can only believe are half-deity?
These people surely have lived among us. We know them by their human names. Adjectives are the only thing that graze their godly names.
The most powerful and mystifying of all, Loving.
|Mother Teresa Portrait by Jerry Breen.|
And, more importantly, will we ever be like them?
Their names, when spoken, burn like a searing coal on the title screen of a movie. Licking blue flames whip off of their name, and their myth mystifies us.
Searing, singeing, crackling and popping while their names burn in the black introduction and fades into the opening of a movie worth filming.
And we certainly sit through it. We crave to hear their stories. When was the tipping point passed that these heroes' stories entered our minds and transported these individuals into the halls of the pantheon?
What we are seeking are hints to our own lives. As a race of young-hearted humans racing the fields as young does, we asked for so long whether or not our lives would be as worthy. As we matured to lumbering elephants, meandering the savanna of this world, pleasant, yet lacking newness, we came to believe that the work was too hard. And that is what caused us to say, "These few were the chosen. The gods looked down and said 'this will be the one to run and make a difference.'" Not us.
But the demi-Gods look down and weep. They weep because they know that the only separation between their myth and ours is a simple realization. They weep because they obtained a revelation that we all have shared. The difference is that the revelation moved them.
We all are frighteningly aware of the same thing. For the tellers of the myths, the awareness stood too tall before us, too wide. For the demi-Gods, the awareness burned as a flame in their heart, consumed them and their fears, and left nothing but charred ashes from which living demanded them to rise, shake off the coals, and fly, fly over such a wall to see the heights and the great beyonds, endless miles of beauty and truth lifting them.
That awareness is that we ARE the miracle.
We are the answer the dirty and dying need.
And they will become our answer.
We are the one we have been waiting for.
We are the caped hero, the bull-whip-wielding savior.
We face our own leviathans.
We overcome them too.
We are the living divine by the breath that was breathed upon us.
We are the animated Force on this earth.
We are moved by golden and gleaming truth.
We emanate worthy values.
We live and die for nobility, honor, and good.
Our call is to the desperate and dying.
Our journey is to the widowed and orphaned.
Our ears careen to the sound of travesty.
Our hope bleeds at the crying need.
Each human knows this. It is in our blood. Our genes are mixed and mingled deity.
When we crave a heroic story, we crave our own. When we are disappointed in stories that lack a savior, we point to our knowledge that we need one and that we have been called, in our small and powerful ways, to be one. When we sense wrongness, we point to the rightness shaped like marble under our mangled flesh.
We are the ones we have been searching the horizon for. We are the caped ones. We are the blazing, resurrected flying-ones. We are the creative and brilliant ones.
We are a race that lives as pantheon; half human, half God. What will it take for you to live it?