Heavenletter #5027 Like Shepherds in Long Ago Fields , August 30, 2014 http://heavenletters.org/like-shepherds-in-long-ago-fields.html
There are lingering thoughts, much like fingertips that trill over the piano keys lightly, and you hear them. These lingering thoughts could be like reverie that you hear in the background.
There are also thundering thoughts playing like an orchestra made up of bassoons. All the musical instruments of life, you play. You play the violin. You play instruments you have never even heard of, ancient instruments, instruments from other lands you have no recollection of that are yet deep in your heart and rising DNA.
You are made of all these notes and their instruments and the variations thereof. Of course, you are made of these. You are made of sound. You are a musician of life, and your moods reflect in the music you play and float up and down and around like cigarette smoke. And, sometimes, when you make music, you soar. At these times, your arms become angel wings, so heightened and Heaven-borne are your arms lifting on this music you are hardly aware that you play.
Thoughts also escape you, thoughts you want to think of, like someone’s name, an author’s, perhaps, or the name of a book or movie. The name eludes you. You demand the name to reveal itself, as if your life depends upon it. The name you can’t remember haunts you. In its own time, the name will pop into your mind like the clanging of cymbals or thunder of drum-rolls. At these times, when the sun shines through the clouds and brightens your crowded head, there, as clear as a bell, lies the sought-after name. It was always there under the surface, yet not quite accessible. Now it is there as easy as pie, as easy as falling off a log. The name was there all along, only you couldn’t quite find the cord to pull it down.
Have confidence. Do you know what confidence is? It is not making a big deal of something. It is knowing what matters and what does not. Confidence is knowing you are on a course, and you are doing well however dim the course you move on may seem to you.
You successfully play a musical instrument. Even when no one but you may hear, you hear it, and it is your music wherever it may come from and whether you consciously hear it or not. A deeper truth is that nothing really eludes you. The music of the spheres is right here within you all the time as well. You play on. You play on. And vaguely, oh, so vaguely, you hear it, a faraway tune that lures you to where you long to be and yet where you cannot quite locate. It is like a telephone call that comes to you, and yet the overt connection is not clear. Nevertheless, you are connected, and you are getting closer. The connection is almost ready to break through into music you have hardly dared dreamed of.
Your life is a concert, a medley in which you play many notes on many instruments, and there is music, music, music. You play chords you have not yet realized you play. Perhaps you play them soundlessly. You play with an orchestra unbeknownst to you. You play with a chorus of angels. They are your accompaniment. The angels accord you, beloveds. All the music is for you. All the music is yours. It doesn’t matter if you are aware you hear it or not. On some distant hill or ray, you do hear it, and everyone else hears this music as well, and everyone is affected by it.
Some might say it is My Voice. Some might say you have heard it before. Some might say that you have always heard it, and that something of this Voice sinks in, this Voice, this background Music, and that it is yours, that you are also My Voice, not in the wilderness, but in the fields of flowers and green pastures that you long for and where you are playing your flutes like shepherds in long ago fields.