04 August 2025 - Monday When Pain Becomes the Only World - Part 11d

04 August 2025 - Monday

When Pain Becomes the Only World - Part 11d

“I Carry the Mountain in My Breath”

A Ceremonial Introduction to Living Within Two Lands

from the Earth Remembers Series

When Pain Becomes the Only World

A Overview of my Journey

A Weaving of Kimoon K’uxlaal

through the Cloud Forest and Moonflower

A Ceremonial Remembrance from the Years 2020 to 2022

This is one of the many ceremonial stories

that rose through my breath

from within the dark years of my life—

the years when pain,

and the loudness of Voice 1,

filled every corner of my body,

and I could not remember light.

It was the time between 2020 and 2022,

when the weaving inside me had frayed.

My joints ached with sorrow.

My thoughts circled in grief.

My hope had nearly gone quiet.

And Voice 1 became the only voice I knew.

There were days I could not walk.

There were days I did not try.

There were days I forgot who I was

beneath the pain.

And yet—

There was something that did not forget me.

There was a pulse in my chest—

not of strength,

but of memory.

Not of clarity,

but of presence.

A thread

from the heart within my body

that still held warmth,

even when I could not.

I placed my hand there—

over the landscape of my chest—

and whispered,

not with belief,

but with longing:

“Heart within me,

I am ready to receive.

I do not know how,

but I am willing.”

And the first weaving began.

This was Step One—

receiving from the cellular light

already within me.

Not from outside,

but from the inner heart

of my own body.

The light behind my pain,

the kindness inside my cells,

began to move

toward the places that had been forgotten.

My knees.

My hips.

The trembling thoughts of despair.

All of them

began to be touched

by the quiet warmth

of my own inner remembering.

⸻

The Cloud Forest and the Moonflower —

A Weaving of Holding for the Heart Within Voice 1

And from this thread of inner kindness,

two sacred landscapes rose to meet me.

First came the Cloud Forest—

not as an answer,

but as a fog.

She wrapped my fear.

She held the ache of uncertainty.

She did not try to fix me.

She only said:

“You do not need to know.

You only need to be.”

And so I breathed,

not to escape the pain,

but to let her mist enter me.

Then came the Moonflower,

Spirit of Toloache—

the one who blooms

in the absence of applause.

She did not wait for daylight.

She did not require witness.

She simply opened.

And from her bloom,

I heard:

“Even now,

even here,

you are not alone.”

These two—

the Cloud Forest and the Moonflower—

wove themselves

into the Heart Within Voice 1,

the place beneath my fear

that still wished to be held.

This was the beginning

of the first fire

not of destruction—

but of hope.

A fire

that warmed the bones

instead of burning them.

A fire

that came not from certainty,

but from being received

by light.

⸻

This is Kimoon K’uxlaal

The sacred remembering

that even the places wrapped in pain,

even the loud voices,

even the trembling joints and frightened thoughts—

belong

to the great weaving

of many into One Heart.

This is how I began to live again—

not all at once,

not without suffering,

but with a breath

and a thread

and a willingness

to be woven.

Through the sacred presence

of the landscapes that remember me,

I began to remember myself.

And so I offer this story,

not as a healing that is finished—

but as a flame

that still burns

in the quietest part of my chest:

The light

that walks with pain

and does not leave it behind—

but weaves it

into the beauty

of the whole.

⸻

When Pain Becomes the Only World

A Ceremonial Weaving of Light

for Voice 1 emerging into the Heart Within Voice 1

Receiving the Light Within the Heart Center

There are moments

when I cannot remember

anything but this pain.

The ache in my knees.

The tightness in my hips.

The throb that wraps my whole being

until the only voice I can hear

is the one that says:

“This is too much.”

“You will never get better.”

“You are alone in this.”

“You are losing who you used to be.”

These are not whispers.

They are the relentless hammer

of Voice 1,

not cruel by nature—

but loud,

frantic,

filled with fear,

wrapped in justified suffering.

My mind races.

My body closes.

I forget everything

but this ache

and this voice.

And yet—

beneath the noise,

beneath the storm of thought and fire of pain,

there is a faint warmth

in the center of my chest.

I do not go looking for it.

I simply notice

a small place of quiet

beneath the roar.

My own heart.

The landscape of my chest.

The soft drumbeat of life

that still pulses

even when I cannot rise.

I place my hand there—

gently,

with no expectation.

Just a soft contact

between skin and light.

And I say:

“Heart Within me,

I am ready to receive.

Not to fix.

Not to escape.

But to receive the cellular light of kindness

within my own body.”

I breathe in.

Slowly.

And with that breath,

something begins to weave.

A tiny thread—

a golden current

I breathe out.

moving from the heart center

into the pain itself.

This thread does not judge the pain.

It does not try to eliminate it.

It simply brings warmth

to the cells that feel forgotten.

To my knees.

To my hips.

To the sorrow in my belly.

To the loudness in my mind.

It says:

“Even here,

you are still worthy of light.”

And slowly—

the pain receives it.

Just a little.

Just enough

to soften the edge of the inner scream.

This is where the first weaving begins—

not with thought,

but with the simple act

of receiving light from within.

This is the emergence of the Heart within Voice 1.

⸻

The Cloud Forest and the Moonflower —

A Weaving of Holding Light for the Heart Within Voice 1

And once this thread of the heart within voice 1 is opened,

the outer landscapes begin to respond.

One possible thread emerges from the Cloud Forest.

She does not speak with clarity.

She does not bring answers.

She arrives as fog—

gentle, damp, embracing.

She surrounds the unknown,

the fear,

the pain that keeps changing

from one hour to the next.

She wraps it all and says:

“You do not have to know.

Just let me hold you.”

And so I let her mist enter my breath.

I inhale not knowing,

and exhale the need to control.

Then, in the silence that follows,

the Moonflower appears.

She is the Spirit of Toloache—

the one who blooms unseen,

who opens in the night

when the world has turned away.

She does not ask to be looked at.

She opens because it is time.

And her petals whisper to me:

“Even here—

especially here—

you are not alone.”

My pain listens.

It does not vanish.

But it begins to rest.

The Heart Within Voice 1,

once curled tightly in fear and fire,

begins to receive

the quiet companionship

of these sacred landscapes.

The fog.

The bloom.

The breath.

And with that receiving—

a shift.

A small warmth.

A flicker.

It is the Presence of the Light within the heart who calls itself Voice 2

emerging through the weave.

It does not speak loudly.

It does not offer solutions.

It simply arrives

like the first star before dawn—

and says:

“You are not forgotten.

You are being held.

Let the light of the land

weave itself into your cells.”

And I do.

I breathe again—

not to be strong,

but to stay.

To stay

with this weaving.

To let

even the pain

become part

of the One Heart.

⸻

This is Kimoon K’uxlaal

The sacred remembering

that even the places wrapped in pain,

even the loud voices,

even the trembling joints and frightened thoughts—

belong

to the great weaving

of many into One Heart.

The light within my chest,

the breath of the Cloud Forest,

the bloom of the Moonflower—

they meet here.

In me.

And I am still

a body of light.

A heart of threads.

A sacred being

being woven

into wholeness.

⸻

Deepening the weaving of the Many parts

within The Cloud Forest and the Moonflower

A Weaving of Holding Light for the Heart Within Voice 1 emerge through the heart within the light of Inner Kindness

There is a place within me

that still believes

it is not being held.

The pain in my body is sharp.

My knees speak in fire.

My hips pulse with heaviness.

The thoughts return like wind against stone:

“This will not end.”

“You’re alone in this.”

“No one understands.”

This is Voice 1—

the one who shouts because it hurts.

The one who trembles because it remembers.

The one who carries pain as if it must walk alone.

But in the sacred remembering of Kimoon K’uxlaal,

even this voice is not outside the circle of light.

I begin where I am.

Not with answers, but with the first breath of willingness.

I place my hand over the landscape of my chest.

The landscape of my own heart.

The inner mountain of warmth beneath the pain.

And I say to myself:

“I am ready to receive

the cellular light

of the sacred landscapes.

Even here. Especially here.”

And then—

the weaving begins.

The Cloud Forest rises from the mist.

Her breath is not clear, but real.

She wraps my doubt,

my confusion,

my not-knowing

in a blanket of fog

that does not demand clarity.

She says:

“Let it be uncertain.

I will hold you anyway.”

And something inside me softens—

the ache loosens by one thread.

Then, in the deep of night,

the Moonflower appears.

Not in sunlight,

not with fanfare—

but in the hush.

She blooms when the world has turned its face away,

when no one is watching,

when loneliness is deepest.

She opens not because she is seen,

but because it is her nature to do so.

And in this, she teaches me:

“Even now, you are blooming.”

“Even here, you are not forgotten.”

And I feel it—

the two threads touch.

The Cloud Forest,

offering courage in the unknown.

The Moonflower,

offering companionship in the silence.

They do not fix the pain.

They accompany it.

They hold the quiet willingness within me—

the part of Voice 1 that is tired of shouting,

tired of believing it is alone.

And from this holding,

something new stirs.

It is not a solution.

It is not a miracle.

It is a presence.

It is Voice 2—

the quiet flame inside the chest

that does not try to explain,

but simply says:

“I am here.

You are not separate from the light.

Let us be in this together.”

This is the first fire of becoming.

Not of leaving the pain behind—

but of letting the pain be touched

by the threads of the land

that still remember me.

The Cloud Forest.

The Moonflower.

Breath and bloom.

Fog and light.

Held and seen.

⸻

This is Kimoon K’uxlaal

The sacred weaving of the Many into One Heart.

Where even the pain-wrapped thoughts of Voice 1

are welcomed back into the loom.

Where the body that cannot move

still breathes light.

Where the inner cellular kindness

meets the outer breath of the land—

and something new begins.

©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