Yet in reality, the Heavens are within us. The Heavens of the Father are our own Heavens, still locked within, not yet opened. We ourselves have isolated them from our inner being, placing them in a state of dormancy.
Many times, as we speak, we refer to the grandeur of the Heavens. We speak of the Heavens of the Father, of the serenity found within them, of the harmony and beauty that prevail throughout their vastness. We speak of the Heavens as though they are something foreign to us—like a distant region or a realm that we might reach after a journey. We detach them from ourselves, projecting them outside our being, our essence, our life.
Yet in reality, the Heavens are within us. The Heavens of the Father are our own Heavens, still locked within, not yet opened. We ourselves have isolated them from our inner being, placing them in a state of dormancy.
The human being spins in a cycle devoid of spiritual contemplation—detached from the realization that these Heavens exist within, and that one is meant to live in them. Living on the surface of the earth, unaware of the magnificence concealed within one’s own Heavens, man feels increasingly empty and burdened by doubt, unable to find anything that truly fulfills him.
But when the contrast between the surface life and the inner image begins to dawn, it causes a shaking within, a rupture—and slowly leads to the realization of man’s Unsurpassable Image. And the more deeply one realizes this, the more the inner Flame intensifies, the more the Heavens open up.
As man draws closer to this truth, he begins to live in ever higher Heavens. For his Heaven is not singular—it is multiple, infinite—and he must pass through them all to finally understand that these countless Heavens are but One: the Eternal Heaven of the Father.
We speak of the Heavens in tones hushed and high,
Of the Father’s domain, of the infinite sky.
Of stillness, of beauty, of radiant peace—
As if they exist in a realm past release.
We speak as though distant, as foreign, unknown,
A kingdom above, not seeded and sown
Within the soul’s garden, hidden from light,
Veiled in the folds of our own inner night.
But the Heavens, dear soul, are not far, not apart—
They slumber in chambers deep in the heart.
Locked by the self, long exiled from view,
Awaiting the one who remembers what’s true.
The world spins around in its shallow delight,
Blind to the stars that are burning so bright
Not above—but within—in silence they flame,
Calling the soul to remember its name.
And when, in the silence, the contrast breaks through—
When longing ignites what we thought that we knew—
A tremor, a fracture, a cry from inside,
And the doors of the Heavens begin to swing wide.
Each Heaven a threshold, each threshold a gate,
Each gate an ascent from the lesser to great.
Not one, not many—the number is One,
The Father’s own Heaven, the flame and the sun.
So rise, O pilgrim, through heavens untold,
Through silence, through stillness, through fires of gold.
The journey is inward, the map is the flame,
And Heaven is calling you back by your name.
