Is it that you fear, asks the soul, that when you do not consciously seek to feel me, I am not there with you? Is that it?
Yes, replies Soul Writer. She sits on a rock by the river near her house. Here I am soul, she says. In nature, I am soul. I am the roar of the silt-green spring melt rushing past my feet. I am the sand in which my boot slowly sinks. I am my boot, the stones, the moss, the sunlight glinting on the water.
Why is it that I cannot feel myself as soul with boards and paint and screws? And yet, somehow, I know that I am, as the I AM THAT I AM is soul in body, is Source as well.
So begins an understanding, whispers her soul. Does not a beaver build a dam? And is it not the animal of your soul that you seek? Are you not doing exactly the same thing as the beaver—your eye, the creative eye of the Greatest Creator of all?
The beaver does not ask himself if he is soul when he creates.
In the purest moments of your creation, when you lose yourself in the creation itself, and you are not conscious of the “I” who creates, then you are as the beaver, you are Source, you are soul.