On presence, longing, and the soul’s quiet centre
There are moments in life when everything just flows. A sense of ease we can’t quite name settles in, like sunlight pouring through a window we didn’t know was open. Work becomes lighter. Relationships feel gentler. Even the inner chatter quiets for a while. It’s as if something—or someone—has entered the room of our being, and we are suddenly more ourselves than we were before.
Most people have known at least a glimpse of this. We feel it in the presence of deep love. In nature. In prayer. Sometimes in stillness. Sometimes in tears. Sometimes in the gentle eyes of another. The experience is unmistakable: a return to centre, a feeling of being deeply accompanied.
And when that presence is gone, everything can feel hard again. The same work weighs us down. The same relationships chafe. The inner noise grows loud and restless. Life becomes dry, brittle, and a little hollow.
We don’t always realise we were walking with something sacred until we notice it is no longer beside us.
The Soul’s Greatest Loss
To lose touch with that Presence—whatever name we give it—is perhaps the deepest ache a human heart can feel. Not because something external has gone wrong, but because something vital has grown dim inside. The ancient mystics knew this well. For them, it wasn’t about believing the right things or reciting the right words. It was about intimacy—direct, living connection with the divine source that animates all things.
They spoke of it in hushed tones. The way a soul blossoms when that presence draws near. The way everything hard becomes soft. The way even silence becomes a song.
And they spoke, too, of the sorrow when that intimacy is lost—how even the bright offerings of the world turn pale when our inner light has faded. It’s not that we lose everything. But without that holy companionship, even the best things lack depth. The laughter, the striving, the praise—it all rings a little hollow when the soul is thirsting.
A Love That Waits Within
Some people find this nearness in Jesus. Others glimpse it in a forest clearing or in meditation. For some, it appears in poetry, music, or the quiet whisper of intuition. The point is not the form—but the reality of the connection.
There is, beneath all our doing and trying, a quiet invitation to return. To draw close again to what is most real. To the essence that waits without striving and loves without condition.
This presence doesn’t shout. It rarely competes for attention. It waits—patiently, faithfully—until we are ready to return. Until we tire of the noise and turn again toward the hush of the soul.
When we do, everything begins to soften.
Relearning the Art of Companionship
There’s a skill to walking in that nearness, and it’s not a skill taught by the world. It’s found in simplicity, humility, attentiveness. It comes when we stop performing, stop posturing, and open ourselves—bare, honest, real.
Not to win favour.
Not to impress the heavens.
But because something in us longs to be home again.
We can lose that sense of connection easily—when we chase too many distractions, give our hearts to what doesn’t nourish, or forget to tend the quiet fire within. But the way back is never far. Often, it is just a breath away.
To live in harmony with that sacred presence is to carry a sanctuary within us. And when that sanctuary is tended, we become less shaken by the storms outside. Even the winter seasons of the soul—those dry, dark, and difficult times—become more bearable, because we know the spring will return.
After the Storm, the Calm
There’s an old wisdom that reminds us: after winter comes summer, after night returns the dawn, after the storm, a great calm. The same is true of our inner life. Even when we feel far from that sacred presence, even when the path feels dry and lonely, we are not truly lost.
The soul knows the way.
And the Presence we seek is seeking us, too.
So perhaps the most courageous thing we can do today is to pause. To become still. To offer a quiet welcome to the Love that never truly left, only waited—for us to remember.
Ancient Whispers 
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