Rachel Sumner - Intuitive Hits

A.

Just above the tree line, there is a room with a bed. Two of the four walls are lined with windows, facing east and south. Through them, the light peeks in casting a beautiful glow. The room seems to float, a sanctuary suspended between earth and sky. It is quiet. It is still. Here, time moves slowly.

There are not enough visual clues to tell the story of who lives here. No books left ear-marked and half-read, no fingerprints on the windows, no empty coffee cups to suggest morning rituals, no lingering scents in the air. It is only emptiness and silence. Like a blank page waiting for a story to be written.

I ask, who lives here?

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B.

Lately, I have been asking myself more questions, journeying deeper into the labyrinth of my mind. But what good is it to ask questions if they only lead to more questions? It is like consulting an 8 ball with a perpetually cloudy message, the answers always close, but forever out of reach.

In pursuit of truth, I pose a few more: Am I only asking questions to raise awareness within myself? Am I caught in this loop of self-awareness, circling without going one stop further to actually answer the question in itself? Is it possible, that I am afraid of the answers?

I want to find my way to the other side. I am yearning to connect threads. I crave the answers that can anchor my maddening mind. I want an internal Without A Doubt, Signs Point To Yes, My sources Say No. Just like a rare, clear 8 ball. I want to feel the solid ground of clarity. I want to stretch out into the freedom of knowing. Where questions can dissolve into answers, and answers into wisdom.

I ask, who lives here?

——-

C.

I close my eyes, feeling my feet resting on the floor. I inhale slowly and listen. At the first energetic ping I feel a rush through my body. I place my fingers on the keyboard, and I begin to type. I follow a thread that makes little sense as sentences form but is received like whispers from the ether. By following this thread, I am listening to the greater within. I am casting aside my logical needs to know - into the wild unknown. There is freedom in this not knowing. There is surrender and acceptance. There is play and there is trust.

With each word, I begin to notice the questions lessening through the simple act of typing. I am giving them peace to rest awhile. Questions need rest too; did you know that? They grow weary from all that circling, those endless spirals, filling every possible open space of thought.

This is the language of intuition, as ancient as the earth itself. Woven from feeling and following.

This is writing. This is MY writing - a communion with the unknown, a dance with the unseen.

———

B. (Part II)

… Again, I ask, who lives here?...

a hungry child still waiting to be fed / a body etched with the scars of abandonment / a survivor of the lessons of grief come to soon / a contortionist folding herself smaller and smaller / a growing muscle attempting to bench press the weight of the world / an organizer as coping mechanism / a tenacious healer / a parent to the child of myself / a yin to a yang / an instigator of deep belly laughter / a hiker of endless mountains / a craver of deep connection / a kale lover before it was cool / a fumbling wordsmith / a mostly grounded yogi / a sometimes ghost in my own house / a village dreamer / a tail wagging in play / a horny love seeker exhausted by the chase / an awe filled wanderer/ a cowboy in the wild wild west of my mind / a vessel for synchronicity / an open channel to all the possibilities / an attentive listener / a wide - opened

seer / a page waiting to be written / a story ready to be told.

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human doing human things. writing her way through the unknown.