Opening a door

Sometimes you send a Storm. Sometimes it is a butterfly.

Logos.  The word is the beginning of everything.  They say that you have been silent for 1000 years but you and I know that isn't true.  Everyday we talk.  Not in words like most conversations, and I'm sure that I don't always understand what you say (our languages differ) but I always know you are here.  All places - one place.  All hearts - one heart.
What do I hear?  Sometimes sweet music.  Sometimes quiet tones of disapproval. Sometimes whooping cries of excitement and happiness.  All these things and yet behind them all there is a constancy - something stable and reliable like a strong undiminishable electrical current, the language that Tesla learned so well.  Sometimes there seems to be a mood, but behind the mood there is always you.
Sometimes I smile, but I'm still me.  Sometimes I cry, but I'm still me.  Sometimes I rage, but I'm still me.  Sometimes I fail, but I'm still me.  And when I succeed, I'm still me.  Like you, there is a point inside that remains constant.  When I see you burning in the night and hear your music, my own fire burns brighter and my own music tries to sing in harmony.  Sometimes I fall short and there is discord, but when I find the notes, the beauty is unbearable.
I was walking one day in the woods.  I saw sparks flying on the wind.  In my pocket I had a small metal box.  I filled the box with kindling and caught a spark in it.  From that point on, the spark has remained with me.  Sometimes I feed it new kindling to see it grow brighter.  Sometimes I add damp materials to cool it down a bit.  Sometimes I use it to spark campfires where we can all share stories.
But I wonder why it is that so many veils are there between you and I.  I can only see so far into their baffles.  I think about Isis when I consider this.  She had veil upon veil and one could never remove them all so none but the most reverent could ever hope to know what she might look like.
We may wander far from you, but the light is always there, sometimes large, sometimes small, but always constant and undiminished.
Every night when we are at sea, we look to the shore and smile to see the lighthouse.
Why, today of all days, are you speaking so vigorously using language I am senseless in?
Sometimes, often, after it rains, you become a fragrance on the wind.
Sometimes, infrequently, when I am sleeping you rouse me to hear coyotes passing.
In the envelope, all things are placid and constant.  In the envelope, the air is clean.  The flame burns brightly with no smoke, ash or residue.
Outside the envelope, all things disorderly.  Outside the envelope, only the crust of the world is seen.  There can be order within disorder, but there cannot be disorder within order.  There can be truth in untruth, but untruth is not contained by truth.
Battalions march on strange cities, sometimes warring, sometimes playing.
Squads and Patrols rush in and strike, sometimes to ruin, sometimes to raise up.
Earth remains. The voice is constant.  I listen, even when I don't understand, I listen.