Story: Where the Light Touches

I woke before the stars had fully faded. The darkness had not yet lifted, but it was not absence — it was full of mystery. A fertile silence held the earth like a mother holding her sleeping child. I sat up from my mat, feeling the quiet pulse of something ancient and kind flowing in me. The Light — subtle, not yet visible — shimmered behind my breath, within my chest, around the edges of every thought. It was always there, though many days I walked as if I’d forgotten.

But not today.

The Garden of Stillness

I went to the garden, barefoot, as was my habit. The soil was cold and alive. I sat beneath the old fig tree, whose roots curved like a wise hand around the base of a large stone. I touched the bark and whispered a prayer of gratitude — not to anyone, but to everything. As the sun began to rise, the dew on the leaves caught fire, glowing for a few precious moments before drying away. It felt like the Light within me was greeting the Light outside me — not as two, but as one.

In the stillness, I heard something deep: Remember yourself. Not your name, not your story. But the quiet flame within, untouched and always burning.

The Man with the Bitter Eyes

Later, at the market, I was arranging bundles of rosemary and lavender when a man approached, his gait rigid, his eyes sharp with old pain. His clothes were neat, but his face was weary, like someone who had carried too many winters in his heart.

“You charge too much for weeds,” he spat, pointing at my herbs.

I saw others shrink away. But I stayed still. I saw through his anger to the thirst beneath it — the thirst to be seen, to be honored, to matter. So I said simply, “You may take what you need. Pay what your heart finds fair.”

He stared at me, confused. The fire in his eyes flickered, not out, but inward. He picked up a small bundle and placed two coins gently on the table. As he turned to leave, he said, almost in a whisper, “Thank you.”

The Light did not defend itself. It only met his pain with truth — and left space for him to soften.

The Child and the Crow

By the river, I found a little girl crouched near the reeds. Her dress was wet, her cheeks streaked with tears. In her hands, a limp crow rested, its wing bent at a wrong angle. She looked up at me, desperate.

“Can you fix him?”

I could not. The crow was dying.

But I did not look away. I knelt beside her and said, “Let us stay with him.” We closed our eyes and placed our palms over the bird. I showed her how to breathe slowly, how to feel the Light even in loss. The crow’s spirit left quietly, like mist.

She looked up at me and asked, “Is he gone?”

“He has changed form,” I said. “He is not gone.”

She nodded, not because she fully understood, but because she felt something deeper than words. We built a small cairn for the bird. As we walked back, she held my hand, no longer crying.

The Light didn’t come to save, but to accompany — to dignify the moment, even in death.

The Council Fire

That night, the village gathered around the fire. A dispute had grown between two families over water rights. The arguments were heated, fingers pointed, old wounds reopened. They asked me to speak, not because I held power, but because I remembered something they sometimes forgot.

I stood and spoke slowly. “Water does not belong to us. We belong to water. The same stream that feeds your field feeds your neighbor’s soul. Do not divide what flows freely.”

They quieted, not because I was persuasive, but because something older than argument had entered the circle. I placed my hand on the earth and said, “If you listen, the land will tell you how to share.”

That night, they found a way. Not perfect, but peaceful.

The Light spoke — not to win, but to unite.

The Silent Stranger

Much later, just before sleep, a knock came. A woman stood at my threshold, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. She said nothing. Her eyes were shadowed with distances and silence.

I invited her in, no questions. I offered warm soup, a blanket, and the presence of someone who would not demand her story. She sat near the fire. We watched the flames together, wordless.

In her stillness, I felt the Light quietly unfolding her edges, reminding her that even in ruin, there is radiance. She slept by the hearth.

Before dawn, she left. But on the table, a single white feather and a sprig of rosemary — offerings, or maybe thanks.

The Light did not need understanding. It simply needed to be present.

Epilogue: The Living Flame

I am no prophet, no healer, no saint. I am a gardener, a listener, a witness. I carry the Light — not because I earned it, but because I remembered it was always there.

The world is full of forgetting. But when even one person remembers, others begin to see.

And so I rise each day, not to change the world, but to love it.

To be where the Light touches.

To be where the Light is.