are you on your highest timeline?
and other questions that I dare to ask
Feet rooted firmly on the ground, I look far, far ahead on the horizon, onto the day that is a newborn babe, fresh and promising. The patio door is open and I’m standing at the threshold letting the fresh breath in, letting the stale air out, right in the middle of it, being breathed by this exchange that happens through me. Being breathed by a new day flowing in, by the old day trapped inside the room until now.
Then, the breath, my breath, carries a music down. The flute sounds gentle and the sound reaches far, to the open lake below, to the treetops that sway gently in the air, to the ears of people, animals and beings I cannot see yet.
It’s an outbreath turned into music, thin air turned into frequency. When my breath travels through the cherry wood crevices made exactly for this alchemy to happen, it awakens something as magical as it is ancient. Isn’t everything magical inherently ancient? Isn’t magic just remembering our way back?
Who was I before I held this instrument in my hands?
Are you in your highest timeline right now?
The question ripples through the room, through us. We’re sat in a bundle, another late night, when we gather to process the day, to understand the messages, the symbols our reality is so ripe with. How do we know?— Someone asks. The answer comes: You feel like you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
It’s a good place to start.
Questions. Oh the mighty mirrors, put up defenseless and oozing with truth. Like beads on a mala, I’ve been fingering them, I’ve been catching myself asking questions I haven’t dared to ask before:
Can you see now what you’ve been pretending not to see?
Where do you still hold the power in the hands of others?
And, yes:
Are you in your highest timeline right now?
How does it feel to ask it? How does it feel to be the one responsible for your reality? What makes you feel the most alive right now? How does it feel not to give away the power and responsibility for it?
The question is a threshold that we all stand at. Are you living in your most desired reality? And if not, what would make it so? What are you still not giving yourself permission to be, to dream, to realize?
And ah, to dream. To dream while we dream, and to dream the dream into a woken life. Apparently a huge part of lucid dreaming is realizing how to decode the dream of being awake: see the symbols, the patterns, the people places things the universe has put right in front of us for our greatest growth. Can you see the person life has put right in front of your path as a divine messenger? For them to say that one sentence, to poke that certain wound, to put a balm on an open wound instead?
Dreams, full of messages, wisdom and healing, are taking me to alternate lifetimes when I married that boyfriend instead, and was going through a divorce, when I knew more than I know now, or less, or just different things that this version of me hasn’t tapped into. I’ve been dreaming the futures when things now unimaginable are common, and weaving through past, present in all possible realities.
I’ve been dreaming myself into a version of me who no longer stands by things that don’t align. I’ve dreamt myself into me, who is so rooted in her truth all else falls away.
Here, all is still. Here all is buzzing.
Now the forest is bursting with heather—so brilliantly pink against the moss, against the forest floor. I’ve been picking it and letting it dry between the pages, letting it rest on the altar, a divine message of the gentleness and ease.
What will life be beyond here and now?
Quantum leaps, reality shifts, timeline jumps, these are all a part of our daily conversations, nothing out of ordinary. Instead of how are you we’ve been asking what live lesson have you had today, in this deliciously wonderful School of Life? What does life look like outside of it?
Here everything is known to be condensed and canned— jammed together like a raspberry preserve, rich, and deep cooked down, the space between molecules evaporated, so it’s all the joy all the growth, the anger and disillusionment, the old structures and pedestals and hierarchies falling, the new earth birthing from the fertile soil its left.
It’s all the most beautiful and the most challenging no space left between.
In a week this home will be a shell, and I will be on the road again, comforted by the constant of the change. Maybe comforted is not the right word?
I’ll be in the softness of my parents living room, I’ll be pitching a tent on a foreign island, I’ll be going through customs in Pearson Airport, Canadian air welcoming me back to another home.
I’ll be a leaf on descent, no longer holding onto the familiarty of the branch, not knowing where it falls, not gripping, just gently swaying from side to side, like mama’s hips during a dance of sweat and truth,
I’ll be surrendering and trusting.
Letting the outbreath through the flute I’m letting the nitrogen, oxygen and carbon dioxide alchemize into medicine of sound. I’m letting out, I’m not holding in, my release and my surrender is dancing in the air, it dances the air around me.
Maybe that’s why I connect to the flute medicine so much. The music is not in doing but in releasing. The exhale can be a scream, a roar, a sigh out, or a symphony.
And when the sound fades, gently weaving through the forest ahead, I’m left with yet another question:
Next time I breathe in, am I breathing in this music?
