The Smallest Gesture: Where Spirit Meets Life -'Skillful Means.

 

                                                      Persimmons in Kyoto

The Smallest Gesture: Where Spirit Meets Life

A quiet night of stillness, a father and son, and a moment where Neville’s words come alive

I’ve been listening again to Neville Goddard.
His words still echo long after the voice fades:

“Imagination is not the act of fantasy; it is the first act of creation.”

Alongside him, the voices of Alan Watts and Carl Jung have returned to orbit my awareness—different tongues, same tuning fork. All three, in some way or another, say the same thing:

“Focus on yourself.”
“Change begins from within.”
“Your inner world is the seed of the outer.”

Tonight, I was at the computer, sitting still for hours, listening, writing, contemplating.
Immersed in the language of spirit.
Inwardly awake.
Yet part of me was elsewhere. Part of me was in the next room.

My son sat in semi-darkness, completely absorbed in the blue glow of his iPhone.
Not a word passed between us.
Only the quiet sounds of the night.
Only the subtle current of presence flows between our two silences.

And then, without any grand insight or dramatic shift, I found myself asking:

“Are you hungry?”

That’s it.
No lecture. No correction. No concern disguised as control.
Just a human offering. A gesture.
A father reaching out—not to fix, but to connect.

And in that moment, I realized something:

All these hours of listening to Neville, to Hermetic teachings, to meditations on awareness and selfhood—
they weren’t about escaping into higher realms.
They were about learning how to live gently here.

Where imagination becomes relationship.
Where presence becomes action.
Where a simple question becomes the end made real.

---

That was the bridge.
Not a bridge of incident, but a bridge of intimacy.

A father.
A son.
Two minds, two inner worlds.
Sharing the same room, the same moment, the same quiet mystery.

---

I am reminded:

“Everyone is yourself pushed out.”
And perhaps tonight, that includes the boy in the next room, holding his own glowing world, wondering too—where this is all going.

 

I hold the gold lightly now.
Not needing to spend it, just grateful to know I’m holding it at all.

I am reminded:

“Everyone is yourself pushed out.”
And perhaps tonight, that includes the boy in the next room, holding his own glowing world, wondering too—where this is all going.

A moment later, without a word, I went to the kitchen and made him a tuna sandwich.
Not because he said he was hungry.
Not because I needed a response.
But just to seal the space between us.
To let presence take form—not as philosophy, but as food.

I handed it to him gently.
No lesson. No speech.
Just nourishment. Just love in action.

That was the bridge.
Not a bridge of incident, but a bridge of intimacy.
Where spirit meets life.
Where understanding becomes service.
Where silence is answered by the simplest kindness.

I hold the gold lightly now.
Not needing to spend it—just grateful to know I’m holding it at all.

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