Where am I trying to force the shape of things, instead of listening to the energy that’s already there?

The journey begins as a veil of fog drifts slowly across the vast waters of the Great Lake. In the distance, a solitary lighthouse sends its beam through the mist. Each sweep of light brushes the water's surface, and the lake seems to awaken, listening.

I walk into the cold water without hesitation. With each stroke, I swim toward the weathered buoy that rises and falls with the gentle swells. Reaching it, I grasp the heavy chain hanging beneath it and begin my descent.

Down… and down… and farther still.

The water grows astonishingly clear. Sunlight filters through the depths in shimmering ribbons. Great sturgeon glide silently past ancient underwater meadows while schools of smaller fish weave effortlessly through waving grasses. Nothing hurries. Everything belongs.

At the bottom rests a round stone chamber with glass walls overlooking the living lake. I enter and sit quietly at its center.

Above me, the buoy’s bell rings softly with the movement of the waves.

Each tone echoes through the water.

Every few moments, the lighthouse beam reaches even this depth, illuminating the chamber before fading once more into blue silence.

I settle into stillness and ask:

“Where am I trying to force the shape of things instead of listening to the energy that is already there?”

The fish continue swimming as though they have never questioned how to move with the current. Watching them, I feel a longing—not simply to create, but to live as naturally as they swim, moving between the waters below and the world above, creating and sharing from love rather than effort.

A gentle tapping interrupts my thoughts.

I look toward the glass.

Outside hovers a luminous being with graceful wings. Tiny silver fish gather around it as though greeting an old friend, circling in quiet reverence. The being radiates neither power nor authority, only an immense familiarity.

I wonder how such a being could enter this chamber without flooding it.

The moment the thought arises, the figure simply appears beside me, now perfectly sized for the room.

It smiles.

“You asked a question,” it says softly. “I have come to answer.”

The chamber grows quiet except for the bell above.

“Do you hear the buoy?”

I listen.

The bell rings again.

“Notice what happens,” the being continues. “The sound does not command the lake. It does not push the waves into another shape. It radiates outward, touching whatever it meets.”

As I listen more deeply, I can almost see the invisible circles moving across the water’s surface, expanding farther and farther, adapting to every ripple without resistance.

“This,” the being says, “is flow.”

“The vibration meets each surface exactly as it is. It bends with it. It listens before it speaks. It influences without imposing.”

The words settle inside me.

The being continues.

“When your hands touch clay, what do they truly do? They do not force life into the clay. Your fingertips listen. They discover the form waiting quietly inside. You simply help it emerge.”

I think of every sculpture I have made.

Every puppet.

Every drawing.

How often had I believed I was inventing them?

Perhaps I had really been uncovering them.

“But don’t I bring something of myself?” I ask. “Isn’t there something within me that longs to leave my mark upon the world?”

The being nods.

“Of course. But ask yourself what you mean by your mark.”

“If your mark comes from the desire to possess, to be recognized, to claim what was never yours alone, then the work becomes smaller.”

“You are not separate from the clay.”

“You are not separate from the water.”

“You are not separate from the earth.”

“When you meet the world as yourself meeting yourself, creation becomes collaboration.”

I sit quietly.

The words feel both beautiful and unsettling.

“But what about imagination?” I ask. “Isn’t imagination the source of creativity?”

“Yes,” the being replies. “But imagination is not meant to replace reality.”

“It is meant to reveal what reality is asking to become.”

“Use your imagination as a bridge—not as a wall.”

“Sense first.”

“Imagine second.”

“Create third.”

“Your gifts grow stronger when they arise from relationship.”

The chamber becomes silent once more.

I realize I have often tried to shape life before listening to it.

To solve before sensing.

To speak before hearing.

To make something impressive rather than something true.

The being watches patiently as understanding begins to unfold on its own.

“You think creation is about changing the world,” it says.

“But creation is about becoming large enough to hear more of the world.”

“Do not ask, ‘How can I leave my mark?’”

“Ask instead, ‘What is asking to emerge through our meeting?’”

The walls between myself and everything around me begin to soften.

The fish.

The lake.

The clay.

The trees.

The people I meet.

The stories I write.

None are separate conversations.

They are all one conversation happening through different forms.

The being rises.

“Come.”

Together we leave the chamber and ascend the chain toward the buoy. Light grows brighter with every movement upward until we break the surface beneath the great open sky.

The fog has begun to lift. The lighthouse continues its steady rhythm. The bell still sings with every wave.

I climb onto the shore.[PE1]  The earth feels different beneath my feet, because it has changed, but because I have.

The being speaks one final time. “Walk gently. Notice before acting.  Listen before shaping. Let your touch become a conversation. The earth is always responding. The relationship is never finished.”

“The water reshapes the shore. The wind reshapes the grass. The seasons reshape the forest. Wisdom is not something you possess. It is something you enter in relationship.”

The being fades into the morning light. I stand quietly, listening. The next step of my journey is no longer something to invent. It is something waiting to be discovered.