The Beautiful Song the Soul Knows to Sing
Your soul knows how to sing beautiful music.
Everything is vibration and pattern. Quantum physics and spiritual traditions converge on this point.
If one can organize a vibrational pattern beautifully, it sings.
This is obviously true in the literal sense of music. It is also true in the sense that the flower, organized beautifully, sings to the bee, or how the smile in the child’s eyes sings to its parents.
The same vibrations and patterns that make up the psycho-social-bio-spiritual swarm that is me are found in all others and all elsewheres; the material of essence is selfsame across all modes of being. Therefore, with the right configuration, it must all be able to sing together.
The task of life is to sing a beautiful song. In other words, to orient one’s vibrational essence such that singing is what occurs by virtue of one’s existence happening.
This is the target on the individual level. This is the heart of individuation: to make the song one’s soul cannot help but sing be beautiful.
It is as simple as that, at its core. Things simplify when they converge on their natural center point. This is the elegance of nature. It is simple at its heart—and this is the nature of heart: that which is so simply true it need not be explained.
The issues come in facing the nature of reality as an infinite staircase of fractals. As deeply as one feels called to spelunk in a given chasm of one’s curiosity, any further number of infinite staircases will rise to meet one there.
So focus becomes the matter—attention, which is the harnessing of awareness. When we’re properly oriented, we wield our awareness to attend to that which is most important in a given moment.
But the internet age has operationalized our world to capitalize attention-gathering for its own sake, only to churn that gathered attention into ad revenue.
Obviously, the expense sheet at the other end of that tally is outrageous when it comes to the human costs.
Our world has become a continuous stream of ubiquitous social media feeds, auto-playing episodes, same-day shipping, infinite free pornography, 50-foot billboards, single-use plastics, and 30-second TikToks.
How can one even sustain the focus to practice singing one’s song of individuation when adrift in this inhumane cacophony? We’re making it damn near impossible for ourselves—for nobody’s benefit, and, importantly, to everyone’s detriment.
And yet, we keep on choosing it. Even as we toxify the planet, render ourselves infertile, and embed microplastics into our every organ, we will do anything but cast out the preternaturally convenient dopamine vampire that has seized our contemporary culture.
The truth is, we will not be able to move forward until we can look this absurd goblin of our collective creation squarely in its ugly face and say, “I did this.”
“I wanted it. And I’m still wanting it, now, even in the face of the horrendous realization of what I’ve done. I still want it, knowing the innocent lives of every child on the planet are at stake. I still want it. I know. I know how bad it is for me, and the plants and animals, and my children, and the oceans, and the collective foundational “okay”-ness of everything that humanity has struggled long millennia to be gifted the grace of holding sacred. I don’t care. I need it. And I don’t care.”
This is the rallying cry papered and plastered over every visible surface of this Americana, post-industrialist, hyper-consumerist, obsessively fragile, neo-nonhuman shamanic, dogmatic monstrosity of a glass castle that we continue to elect as the best place to house ourselves and all of the things we hold most precious and dear.
I can’t even bring myself to conclude in writing the sentence that begins, “Wake the fuck…”
How many more lifetimes will we be forced to stare limply in the mirror of our own exasperated exhaustion before we buckle up and take the cold, hard reality on the chin?
We made this happen. We created this world, and we continue to sustain it with each passing breath. And it is far beyond time to bring it to account.
Now what that even means for us is incomprehensible at best. How do we even begin to disentangle a centuries-overstuffed junk drawer of cables and wires leading back to who-knows-where with such-and-such half-cocked initial intention?
We could lose ourselves for ten centuries more aiming fingers of blame and do ourselves no favor but overcomplicating an already outright mess.
We have no other option than to look in the mirror and do the adult thing that nobody wants to do because it’s hard…
The thing is, I don’t even need to say what that is. When you take that honest look, you will tell yourself what that is.
The vibrational pattern that is yours to orient will make that immediately clear.
Your soul knows how to sing beautiful music. Nobody needs to teach you that. In fact it cannot be learned. And I know in fleeting glimpses that you remember.
But you’ve forgotten. It’s okay that you’ve forgotten. I’m speaking to myself too—it’s okay that you’ve forgotten.
Nobody blames you. Nobody’s in the next room over yelling off about how its your fault. While you’re left quietly, sad and confused, to find escape into realms of fantasy while you play with your toys. It’s okay that you’ve forgotten. Our world is an impossible place. It’s okay. I promise.
But your ever-living soul and the soul of the planet have not forgotten.
You know how to make beautiful music.
Please remember. You know.
Can you imagine waking each morning to your neighbor singing the most luxuriously soul-enchanting music you’ve ever heard?
The mere thought of it is a delight.
That neighbor is you. You can be that neighbor. Help us remember.
It’s so hard out here in the cacophony.
Please help us remember.
Please help us.