In this brief audio clip, Guy Finley talks about how the perfection of any quality within ourselves must always begin with what we are in the present moment.
Just as a ship lost at sea must make a course correction if it hopes to reach a safe harbor, so must the aspirant be willing to be corrected by life for there to be any hope of sighting heaven’s shore. And it isn’t really so much that life itself corrects us as it is that it serves to reveal us to ourselves. When it does, the choice is ours whether to be self-correcting or deflect the light of revelation that calls for us to change. And when we consider that there can be no real correction without this light shining within us, then—in some strange and mysterious way—its action must be part of our perfection process.
This is why refusing correction—the rejection of any moment that shows us the need to let go of who and what we’ve been up until that moment—is the same as refusing the invitation to realize a conscious relationship with one’s immortal Self. After all, what else is the illumination of any dark, limiting state within us if not an invitation—by the same light that reveals it—to outgrow the parts of us that have agreed to give it a home?
Each time we let go and grow in this way, it isn’t so much that we have learned something new as it is we’ve agreed to be made whole. With each correction that we can see needs to be made—and that we then agree to make within us—our heart and mind are brought into a new relationship with the light that reveals this need. In this way we not only join ourselves to the light, but it unites us. We are made holy.
Welcome correction; choose to be teachable. If the light can’t touch you, it can’t show you the wholeness of your immortal Self.
The highest and only lasting form of self-fulfillment is found through the completion of the moment itself and not in whatever one might try to extract and then capitalize on out of its appearance.
Like a flower that emerges from rocky soil only on a fully moonlit night, truth appears—and its fragrance enriches whomever waits nearby. Then suddenly, just as it appears on no appointed schedule, it disappears again; only silence marks the empty spot from which it sprang.
Some try to dig it out but manage to extract only bits and pieces of petals, stem, and occasional root. But none can pull from the ground intact what is one with its nurturing soil, nor can any harm this precious flower they pursue, because it cannot be possessed; it is deathless.
Perhaps the harm in their pursuit, if any, is the almost impossible discovery that the beauty they so long to possess does not live apart from them; rather, it lives for them—even in those moments when they tear it apart, trying in vain to possess what it gives freely to those who die for the sight of it.