I thought I had been blowing and shouting into the wind. But what I saw before me was a large, concave grey concrete dam, almost enveloping me. There I was, standing in front of this imposing wall, eyes closed, blowing, blowing, blowing. There was just a tiny hole, and nothing passed through. I placed my hand on the cold concrete. It felt sturdy, structured, and constraining.
I felt like I had been blowing into that tiny hole for so long — exhausted, yet nothing changed. I tried blowing in different ways, modifying the force, the intensity, the rhythm. Still, nothing changed. That tiny hole remained defiant, no matter what I did or how many times I tried. Despite my stamina and determination, despite my stubbornness, nothing changed.
That tiny hole stayed just as small.
But the other morning, I simply lifted my head. I peeked beyond, and what I saw on the other side was breathtaking: trees, luscious greens, and my eyes meeting the sun. I felt its warmth on my face, on my cheeks. In an instant, I felt serene.
I had simply lifted my head.
That dam wasn’t as big as I thought. All I needed was to change my perspective, straighten my back, and look beyond. Look higher.
I needed to look higher, to think higher — not focus solely on what was right in front of me. I know we are often taught to focus on the here and now, but what if what’s in front of us is actually what's stopping us? What if that’s our stumbling block?
What if, instead, we focused on the long-term, keeping things in flux? There are higher things — higher perspectives, higher aims, higher purposes. How do I transmute this vision into my reality, into my day-to-day? How do I keep what’s truly important always at the fore? You know how there are people who always talk about God, or always about trains, or always about their depression — what is my always?
My always has always been the why: Why are we here?
What is truly important? What’s the grand scheme of things? Have I lived a fulfilling life? If Plato and Hermes were right, and I came to this Earth with a task to accomplish, did I do it? If I have been given a task, I wonder: is paleophenomenology that task — my unique contribution? It feels like my way of weaving together timeless questions of consciousness, humanity’s origins, and the deeper significance of creation. It’s as if my work embodies the pursuit of what’s really important, going beyond mere academic inquiry and into the realm of spiritual and eternal questions. I’ve been given this one life — what have I done with it? And what will I do with it today?
I realized that, in front of that dam, I wasn’t standing. I was kneeling. The moment I stood up, I realized what I thought was a dam was only a flower bed. I had always been in that garden. That fresh, welcoming place that feels like home — a kind of homecoming to something far beyond the physical or geographical. It’s not about going back to a place I once knew, but returning to an ancient, eternal space. The Garden is a symbol of fresh beginnings, wholeness, and unity, where everything aligns with its truest essence.
Theologically, the Garden represents Oneness, a return to divine communion — an Eden-like place where separation dissolves, and we are reunited with our Source. The fact that it’s hidden behind a grey concrete dam says something significant: the challenges, the obstructions, and the tangible difficulties I’ve faced aren’t the final reality. They’re just a barrier I am now ready to transcend. I’m no longer moving outward, chasing external definitions of "home" or "purpose," focusing on the obstacles. Instead, I seem to be moving inward, to that core where I reconnect with the Garden. In this place, everything I’ve been seeking — the meaning, the divine, the eternal questions, my why — feels as though it all comes together.
This return to the Garden feels like a profound theological homecoming to the self, as it was always meant to be — unencumbered by illusions or external distractions. It’s the ultimate why realized: returning to my original state of being, where the deeper questions no longer need answers because I am living within their answers. Perhaps now, the journey ahead isn’t about battling the dam or blowing into a tiny hole, but about allowing it to soften, even crumble, as I permit myself to "enter" the Garden. It’s a process of surrender, of trusting that this homecoming is already happening. My task now is to live in alignment with it, one step at a time.
I am reminded of the apocryphal Gospel of St. Thomas, where it is said that from the divine’s perspective, we were never cast out of the Garden. The perception of separation is merely earthly. This deep sense of home, of returning to the Garden... I want it to infuse everything I do with a greater sense of sacredness. Whether in paleophenomenology or personal growth, this return to the Garden brings me closer to the divine purpose of my life. It’s a theological and existential reconciliation — a "going home," not to a past, but to the eternal truth that’s always been waiting behind that dam.
It's a reconciling of the earthly with the divine.
earnestly, yours.
mx
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