God in My Bloodstream, Like Sunlight on Water
Like sunlight on the water, divinity dances through our lives—unseen, yet ever-present, in every wave of grace, every moment of stillness.
Have you ever felt the divine in the quiet moments of life? That subtle sense of connection, a hum beneath the surface, reminding you that something greater is always present?
Elizabeth Gilbert, one of my favorite authors, writes in Eat Pray Love:
“I want God to play in my bloodstream the way sunlight amuses itself on the water.”
The first time I read that line, something in me stilled. It wasn’t just beautiful—it felt like truth, a truth I had been unknowingly reaching for. A truth that felt like a deep exhale.
The Search for Divine Connection
For much of my life, I believed that connection with the divine was something I had to earn. I thought that if I meditated enough, prayed deeply enough, or read the right spiritual texts, I could somehow break through some invisible barrier and finally feel it. I imagined it would come in a sudden rush—a flash of light or a bolt of clarity, confirming that God, or the divine, was real and alive within me.
But now, I see it differently.
Shifting Perspective: The Effortless Nature of Divinity
Divinity isn’t something to work for. No amount of effort can make the sun shine, nor can I force the water to reflect its light. These things simply are. They don’t strive. And neither does the divine.
When I stopped trying so hard to find it, I began to notice that divinity was already moving through me. It always had been. It had never been something I had to earn.
Finding Divinity in the Small Moments
I feel it sometimes—not in grand, overwhelming moments, but in the quietest of ones. In the warmth of my chest when I hear a song that moves me—the kind that makes the air feel thick with beauty. Or in the deep, unspoken release of a breath shared after laughter with a friend. In the rhythmic pulse of my heartbeat, steady and constant. These small, simple moments are where I feel the divine most.
There’s a presence, a hum beneath the surface, like golden light dancing on water—unforced, ever-present, never needing to be called.
The Key to Connection: Letting Go and Noticing
Maybe that’s the key: letting go and noticing.
What if divine connection isn’t something we need to work so hard to build, but something we soften into, something we allow? It’s there all along, moving and changing, weaving through our lives like the air we breathe.
I often think about the sun and the water. The sun doesn’t struggle to shine; it simply does. The water doesn’t try to reflect; it just does. There is no resistance, no effort. The dance between them is fluid, effortless. And it happens because each is exactly what it is meant to be.
Noticing the Divine
Perhaps this is how we could meet the divine—not by reaching or striving, but by opening. Instead of seeking, what if we simply noticed? Instead of holding on, what if we let go?
For so long, I believed I had to push and fight, search for signs, and seek answers in order to feel close to something greater than myself. But in the quiet of surrender, in those small moments of stillness, I am reminded that divinity is already here. It doesn’t need to be earned or forced. It only needs to be allowed.
Can You Feel It?
Can you feel it? Those moments of grace, however subtle they may seem? The warmth in your chest, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the golden light that’s always been within you? Maybe we don’t need to search for it. Maybe all we need to do is notice. To breathe. To pause. To feel.
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#DivineConnection, #GraceInEverydayLife, #SpiritualAwakening
The Weight of Urgency: Releasing the Grip of Conditioned Thinking
When urgency takes hold, it often clouds our mental space. Pausing allows us to reclaim stillness, trust, and presence.
A Personal Reflection
Before you read, I want to share something personal. This reflection comes from a moment in my life where I faced the pull of urgency—a force that shaped how I saw love, care, and responsibility for years. I hope these words meet you wherever you are and offer a moment of pause, a chance to let go, even if just a little.
The Tension of Urgency
There’s a tension that creeps into the body when urgency takes hold—a tightness in the chest, a knot in the stomach, a flickering in the mind that insists, “Now. Act now.” For so long, I’ve allowed this urgency to steer me, convincing myself it was necessary, even virtuous. It’s been the fuel behind my care for others but also the weight tethering me to exhaustion.
Urgency, in its purest form, isn’t inherently wrong. It has its place in true moments of need. But when it becomes the default—a constant state of alertness—it begins to shape how we show up in our relationships and how we treat ourselves.
It convinces us that we must always be the first to respond, the one who holds everything together. It tells us that love is action, that care is immediacy, and that our worth is measured by how much we give and how quickly we give it.
But is that true?
A Moment of Reflection
Earlier today, my mother sent me a photo of my father in a hospital bed. The monitor by his side displayed his vitals. Her message was simple: “We are at the ER.”
Instantly, urgency rose within me. Panic pulled at my chest, and questions flooded my mind:
Should I go there?
What’s happening?
Why did she send this to me?
That last question hung in the air. Not in judgment, but in curiosity. What was she asking of me? What was I asking of myself?
In that moment, I heard a quieter voice, one I hadn’t listened to in a long time. It said, “You don’t have to be there. You can love them from here.”
It wasn’t dismissive or detached—it was steady, calm, and rooted in trust. I realized that the urgency I felt wasn’t just about my father’s health. It was about my own need to prove something: my care, my worth, my love.
Tracing the Roots of Urgency
Sitting with this, I began to see that the urgency I carried wasn’t born of this moment. It had been with me for years, planted deep and quietly nurtured by:
The belief that selflessness is the highest form of love.
The fear that not acting meant failing.
The idea that love is something to be performed, rather than something simply felt.
This urgency wasn’t just tied to my family. I saw it in my friendships, in how I handled work, and even in how I responded to myself. When I sent a text, I hoped for an instant reply. When I sensed someone’s pain, I felt an invisible pull to drop everything, even at my own expense. And when others didn’t mirror that urgency, it stung.
But was their delay neglect—or was it my expectation that was the source of my pain?
Choosing to Pause
As I sat with my thoughts, I asked myself: What if urgency isn’t the solution but the obstacle?
What if, instead of rushing to fix or prove, I could pause and trust? Trust that others are as capable of navigating their challenges as I am mine. Trust that my love doesn’t need to be immediate to be real.
So I tried. I didn’t rush to the ER. I didn’t let panic dictate my actions. Instead, I stayed where I was and let my love flow from afar. I sent prayers. I held them in my heart. And as I did, the tightness in my chest began to soften.
Breaking the Pattern
Releasing conditioned urgency isn’t about becoming passive or detached. It’s about learning to discern when action is truly needed and when it’s simply fear dressed as necessity.
It’s about reclaiming the stillness within ourselves—the part that knows love isn’t about speed or sacrifice, but about presence and intention.
This doesn’t mean I always get it right. There are moments when I still feel the pull to overextend, to expect from others what I’ve conditioned myself to give. But now I have something I didn’t before: awareness.
And with awareness comes choice.
A Practice for You
If you’ve felt this weight of urgency, I invite you to pause. Feel where it lives in your body. Is it in your chest? Your stomach? Your throat? Let it rise without pushing it away. Just notice.
Then ask yourself:
What am I truly afraid of in this moment?
What would happen if I didn’t respond right now?
How can I trust that things will unfold as they’re meant to?
You might find that beneath the urgency lies fear. Or love. Or both. Let yourself feel whatever arises, without judgment. Then, as you exhale, imagine releasing that weight, even if just a little.
A Closing Reflection
Healing this pattern isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. Every time you pause instead of reacting, you create space:
Space for yourself to breathe.
Space for others to find their own strength.
Space for life to unfold without force.
You don’t need to carry the weight of every moment. You don’t need to prove your worth through urgency. You are enough—whether you act or whether you stay still.
May this reflection offer you the same sense of relief it has brought me. Let’s practice together, not by running or rushing, but by resting in the quiet trust that love and care don’t need to be urgent to be real.
#ReleaseUrgency, #TrustInStillness,#EmpoweredPresence
What does the pull of urgency feel like for you? How do you navigate the space between action and stillness? Share your thoughts in the comments below or connect with us on our social media channels. We’d love to hear your reflections.