Be still—
not as the world teaches stillness,
but the stillness that silences time,
that wraps you like a shawl of peace,
that knows there is no distance
between you and the Divine.
Before the seed,
before the word,
before thought itself—
there is a clearing,
a letting go—
like soil made ready for planting,
a holy ground of silence
where life takes root.
The loosening of every grasp,
the unclenching of every why,
the soft dissolving of identity,
until only presence remains.
And in that presence, something stirs:
The healer within—
not separate, not far away,
but written in your pulse,
alive in your every cell.
The essence is you—
faithful, radiant, whole.
Nothing to add,
nothing to repair,
only a remembering
of what was never lost.
For there is no sickness in truth,
no despair in light,
no emptiness in wholeness.
The healing is not an act.
It is a revealing—
of what was hidden
beneath fear,
beneath story,
beneath name.
It rises
from the silence beneath all sound—
It floods the mind with peace
so deep, so pure,
that there is no room left
for the illusion to linger.
It speaks not as a spell,
but as a song the soul remembers,
a vibration the heart has always known:
You are divine strength
You are radiant joy
You are infinite health—
in body and in soul.
It does not fight.
It does not fix.
It yields—
and in yielding,
a greater power moves.
Love, unbroken.
Peace, unshaken.
Life, unstoppable.
Healing was never something to achieve.
It is only something to remember.
So I invite you,
not to strive,
not to struggle,
but to rest.
Rest in this knowing:
You are whole.
You are light.
You are already healed.
This is now.
It is here.
It is done.
Let it move like sap through your branches,
sing through your bloodstream,
beat in the cathedral of your chest.
Let it be truth
that comforts, restores, completes.
And in the listening,
Peace will rise.
Faith will return.
Love will remain.
Coda
The doctors may guide,
the medicines may help,
yet even they will tell you—
it is life itself that heals.
Cells remembering how to sing,
bloodstreams carrying the music,
tissues rebuilding their silent cathedral.
This is the work of the healer within.
But when the mind remembers love—
real love—
not the fragile,
not the conditional,
but the kind that holds everything whole—
the body heals.
Cells rejoice.
Time stretches.
Life ripples open
until even death becomes
a doorway—that we choose.
For healing wears many faces—
sometimes through medicine,
sometimes through mystery.
But always, at the center,
is the quiet perfection already alive in you.
It is not about fighting,
not about fixing,
but about yielding—
allowing Love’s current to move freely,
clearing what never truly belonged.
So rest here.
Rest in the truth that cannot be broken.
You are not waiting for wholeness—
you are the wholeness.
The healer you seek is not outside you.
It is not in medicine alone,
nor in ritual, nor in remedy.
The healer is within—
as near as your silence.
And when you remember,
Peace will rise,
Faith will return,
and Love will breathe through everything.
