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May-August, 2025

The Forgotten Song On the Porch
(God Is and I Cease to Speak)

by Rev. Rev. Bill Poppa, Ordained Ministerial Counselor

“Listen,—perhaps you catch a hint of an ancient state not quite forgotten; dim, perhaps, and yet not altogether unfamiliar, like a song whose name is long forgotten, and the circumstances in which you heard completely unremembered. Not the whole song has stayed with you, but just a little wisp of melody, attached not to a person or a place or anything particular. But you remember, from just this little part, how lovely was the song, how wonderful the setting where you heard it, and how you loved those who were there and listened with you.”
(T-21.I.6)

On my front porch, the world breathes with me. It’s a mid-November morning in New Orleans, and the air feels like a soft embrace, cool enough to awaken but warm enough to comfort. The porch is old and weathered but alive. It sees countless lives and stories that have passed by its steps. The creak of the wooden rocker beneath me feels familiar as if it is an extension of my being.

I sit, coffee in hand, but the drink seems forgotten, yet warm. The rising sun filters through the trees, their branches swaying gently with the breeze, creating a mosaic of light and shadow that dances across the street. The rhythm of this dance seems to speak to me in a language beyond words — a silent hymn to eternity.

The city stirs, but in this moment, I feel stillness. The faint clatter of a streetcar and the murmurs of early risers blend into one harmonious note. It is not noise. It is a song rising from the depths of the world’s dream, and I realize I am not separate from it. The boundaries of self dissolve as I breathe it all in — the shadows, the light, the sounds, the silence.

A sudden clarity washes over me as if the world’s veil has lifted just enough to reveal its hidden purpose. I am not sitting on the porch; I am the porch. I am the trees and the golden sunlight slipping through their leaves. I am the rhythm of the city, the stillness beneath the motion, the timeless essence that holds it all. The world isn’t outside of me; it is in my mind, and my body is of the world and, therefore, also in my mind — a perfect communion where no separation exists.

The stories in time, the lives of the neighbors, and the struggles and triumphs of the city all flow through me like a gentle stream. They are no longer heavy with meaning or burdened with judgment or regret. They are shimmering as part of a larger tapestry that stretches beyond what my senses can see or touch.

And in this stillness, I know that Love is All. It has always been. The past, the present, and the future collapse into one eternal now, and the burdens I carry dissolve like mist in the morning sun. I feel no need to change the world, for I see its purpose now. The world is not coming at me; it is coming from me.
 
The breeze brushes against my face, and it feels like the gentle touch of a beloved. The creak of the rocker beneath me is music. The coffee cup no longer warms my hand, yet its simplicity feels sacred. Nothing has changed, and yet everything “seems” to. Time is an illusion.

Spirit is soft, tender, and without urgency. A thought returns to me: “This is a miracle.” The miracle is not in some grand event or fixing the world or myself. The miracle is a vision, the remembering, the knowing. It is the gentle surrender of the ego’s grasp, allowing the world to be as it is, perfect and innocent, a reflection of Love Itself. Everybody is here with me. I do not need my senses to know this. My mind is still.

The sun rises higher, the shadows shift, and the city’s song grows louder. Yet, the stillness stays. My mind remembers to laugh, not because something extraordinary has happened but because everything ordinary is revealed as extraordinary.

I sit on the porch, still and silent, and the words echo softly within me: “God Is.”

“We say ‘God is,’ and then we cease to speak, for in that knowledge words are meaningless.” (W-169.5:4)

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