20 July 2025 - Sunday A Ceremonial Story of Political Suffering and the Weaving of the Many into One Heart in the Presence of the Five Sacred Landscapes and the Light Within Voice 2 - Part 6

20 July 2025 - Sunday

A Ceremonial Story of Political Suffering

and the Weaving of the Many into One Heart

in the Presence of the Five Sacred Landscapes

and the Light Within Voice 2 - Part 6

“I Carry the Mountain in My Breath”

A Ceremonial Introduction to Living Within Two Lands

from the Earth Remembers Series

A Ceremonial Story of Political Suffering

and the Weaving of the Many into One Heart

in the Presence of the Five Sacred Landscapes

and the Light Within Voice 2 - Part 6

Conrad Walks with Voice 1 in the Light of Inner Kindness

Come.

Sit again with me.

The dawn has not changed, but I have.

I want to tell you what happened

after I received the threads of kindness from the mountain, the lake, the cloud forest, the cornfield, the volcanoes, and the trees.

Because the truth is,

my mind did not stop its struggling.

I woke one morning with pain in my chest.

It was not my heart as a muscle,

but my heart as a field —

a field torn open by sorrow.

The radio had spoken again of violence.

Of political deceit.

Of greed dressed as governance.

Of good people made invisible.

Of lies repeated so often

they became laws.

And in that moment, Voice 1 came rushing in.

“Look what they do to your people.”

“This country is built on forgetting.”

“You are powerless.”

“You’ve given your life to healing, but it will never be enough.”

“Nothing will change.”

Voice 1 did not whisper.

It thundered inside my ribs.

And yet this time—

I did not cast it out.

I did not try to silence it.

Because I had already walked the land.

And I remembered what the land had given me.

⸻

I. The Mountain — Holding the Weight of Powerlessness

I returned in my memory

to the quiet shadow of Atitlán.

I remembered how it had offered me stillness.

And now, I let that stillness rise again—

inside my political rage.

I sat with Voice 1’s cry of powerlessness

and let the stillness say:

“You are not here to carry the mountain.

You are here to stand with it.”

The mountain didn’t erase my Voice 1.

But it gave me a thread—

a weightless weight.

A calm presence in the spine

that allowed me to hold the ache

without collapsing into it.

Stillness became the thread

that gently embraced my sorrow

without needing to solve it.

⸻

II. The Lake — Receiving the Wound of Betrayal

Then I remembered the lake.

When Voice 1 said:

“You were betrayed by those you trusted.

You believed in justice, and they sold it for profit.”

I felt my fists tighten.

But I saw again the way the lake receives.

All things.

Even poison.

Even grief.

So I sat by the edge of my breath,

and I let the water inside me listen.

The lake whispered:

“You can hold this pain

without letting it define your shape.”

And something softened.

My belly. My breath. My jaw.

A thread of surrender entered me—

not to give up,

but to receive

what I could not yet change.

⸻

III. The Cloud Forest — The Echo of Forgotten Names

Voice 1 then returned with sharpness:

“They erase us.

They write history in foreign tongues.

Our names vanish.

Our ancestors are statistics.”

This time I remembered the tree in the cloud forest.

I remembered the hum in my palm.

So I placed my hand on my chest,

as I once did upon that tree.

And I felt it—

the hum of remembering.

The forest said:

“You are not forgotten.

You carry the memory of 500 years

in your breath.”

That breath

became a thread of green light

moving down my arm,

through my wrist,

into the place where I had clenched my hand.

And I wept.

Because I realized

my anger was grief in disguise.

And my grief was the echo of memory.

⸻

IV. The Cornfield — The Hunger for Justice

Voice 1 shouted again:

“We are hungry for justice.

We are starving for dignity.

They feed us silence and expect gratitude.”

And then I saw the corn again.

The red. The white. The black. The yellow.

All growing from the same soil.

None needing to shout for their color to be seen.

So I pressed my fingers to the earth beside me

and let that heat rise again into my belly.

The corn said:

“Justice is not only what is demanded.

It is also what is planted.”

And something shifted.

A thread of golden fire moved from my belly to my chest—

not rage,

but rootedness.

I felt my hunger, yes.

But it was no longer emptiness.

It was seed.

⸻

V. The Forest of Trees — The Wound of Time

And finally, Voice 1 whispered low:

“There has been so much time…

and still the same wounds return.”

I remembered the fallen branch.

The moss.

The decay.

The softness of transformation.

So I touched the wrinkles on my hands,

and I said to myself:

“You are not late.

You are part of a longer unfolding.”

And in that moment,

a thread of earth-brown light

wove itself into the ache in my lower back.

The pain was still there,

but it became a teacher.

⸻

VI.

The Emergence of the Inner Weaving

One by one,

each Voice 1 thread—

powerlessness, betrayal, erasure, hunger, sorrow—

was held by a thread of light

from the outer world

that had already been given to me.

This weaving did not silence Voice 1.

It honored Voice 1.

It softened it.

It brought it into relationship.

And in that weaving,

new words began to rise from my inner heart:

“I can still act.”

“I can listen more than I argue.”

“I can speak without burning.”

“I can plant justice, not just demand it.”

“I can remember aloud.”

These were not just words.

They were the living threads

of my inner kindness.

A kindness that did not deny the world’s pain—

but chose to hold it

as part of a greater weaving.

©All of the material in this blog in all forms, written, audio, video, pictures, etc. are under the Copyright Conrad and Ilene Satala Seminars LLC,  Fort Wayne, Indiana USA. All rights Reserved. 2025