God Bless Us, Everyone!(Charles E.J. Moulton) Editorial Story


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God Bless Us, Everyone!

Inspirational Story by Charles E.J. Moulton

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The wind outside his window softly caressed the pane. Its tenderness caused the leaves on his garden tree to flutter. It was the flutter of nature's joy, the wind embracing the branches.

From Keenan's bed the tree looked like an angel stretching out its hands in a welcoming gesture. The realization was immediate. Nature had never lost touch with the conscious vibrating energy of everything in existence. Animals, plants, insects, trees and, indeed, the wind, they all thrived inside that energy.

When the breeze curved the corner, slipping by his house, Keenan realized its cooing noises sounded like the satisfied moans of a beautiful woman. It was the wind making love to the trees.
It was the whisper of Mother Nature's call for harmony. Sweet harmony.
The pop combo "The Beloved" from 1991 came to his mind, causing him to smile. "Let's come together. Right now. In sweet harmony."
Coming together.
What a nice phrase.
The idea was so appealing that it caused Keenan to sit up in bed.
Meeting, living together, loving together, coming together, orgasming together. Creating a baby. A baby of love.

The wind, Keenan felt, was the baby of Madam Nature's warmth and Lord Frost's strength, a product of love. The Beloved, even that group had given him proof of how weather present in emotion.
Keenan had spoken to them after a show and they had given him compliments about his profound bass voice. It sounded like a calm gust of Welsh weather. The words had served as a reminder that kept calling to him that everything in life could be compared to winds, breezes, soft and hard, gentle or harsh.
And so, everything was a product of creation, two forces creating new life.
That realization caused him to feel a quamtum truth inside him larger and bigger than anything he had ever felt before. The world a mirror of his emotional state, everything in the universe one force of creation, like a merry-go-round.
The universe constantly made love to itself. The moon with the Earth, creating tides. The sun with the Earth creating seasons. The solar system with the galaxies, creating love. The galaxies with each other, creating harmony.
It was a call. The angels called out to him to spread the holy news.
"We are all one," they called out
It was not a wild call, but a timeless one. It was the angels telling him to be introspective. Harmonious. That thought, it was more of a feeling at the moment, actually, was the result of many years of paradigm shifting. At least ten years of it. Keenan had spent decades listening to the wind of change, the soft wind in the willows, and what it told him.
"The wind is your mistress, but the breeze is your soul."
The aged wisdom had been printed on an old postcard he'd found in the Atlanta Weather Center, back when his school had a meteorological outing in 7th grade. That phrase stuck in his mind. Since then, he listened for breezes everywhere, felt them, sensed them, and read what they had to say.
He often read stories about medicine men in the Cherokee and Sioux tribes, who tried to listen to what the wind told them. They would pick up grass and throw it up in the morning air, just to see where the energy of Mother Earth was flowing. "The wind speaks to us," they would say in the ancient tales, "just like the owl's cry tells us it is night or the rooster's cock-a-doodle-doo says it time to rise. The wind is your mistress, but the breeze is your soul."
Well, the breeze especially was the guide for the shamans.
It kissed the night with stars. It made love to the moon and created baby roses.
The medicine men would listen to the wind for advice whether it was a day to wed or hunt, procreate, give birth or just a day to travel.

Well, that morning Keenan awoke in his water bed with his right hand on his heart. His favorite YouTuber, Christina Lopes, had spoken of starting the day like that. But the gesture was completely unintentional. It was his eternity doing the job for him.
Completely unintentional was also Keenan by intuition beginning his morning Tai-Chi without the YouTube video instruction.
In earlier years, even before knowing Tai-Chi, he had started morning movements that he thought were just his inventions. Funny now how he found out that the movements he had invented were actual Tai-Chi practices. Even weirder was how a voice in his head during his Tai-Chi practice had called him "Old Chen Master". Only recently had he checked the records and to his astonishment found out that there were early Chinese Qi-Gong traditions from the Chen family millenias old.

The wind spoke to Keenan that morning. It told him to stay centered and also explained to him what that was.
"When you are disturbed by other people's eagerness, anger and jealousy, you think and act more according to that than where you are. It doesn't change your helpfulness or make you less helpful. But it does take your concentration away from where you are. Bad influence creates a pulling sensation in your Onaka, your belly and your diaphragm. It is restlessness. If you concentrate on not feeling forced to follow the impatience other people are pushing you into, also not being pushed into something by your own impatience, you are concentrating on where you are at the moment. That's all you need to do. Where are you? What are you doing?"

So Keenan did his Tai-Chi, fearing his wife would be angry that he slept late again, just like his daughter sometimes did. He feared that he would have to hear his wife complain how long she had been up, preparing for their guests. He feared that he would have to see her sneer that only she again was preparing for their arrival. But Keenan listened patiently to the wind again, getting ready in his own time, and got the garden and the pavillion ready and Christmassy for his brother and his sister-in-law.
Keenan listened to the breeze and realized there was no need for fear, for no one was angry at anyone.

The angels lived in the wind, Keenan knew that. He had heard them speak to him so many times in soft breezes that they were friends by now. He had been gardening, planting Dahlias, back in May when a breeze came bringing a thought.
"The white Dahlia should be in the middle," the wind spoke to his mind, "it was Marie Antoinette's favorite flower and you were Marie Antoinette's Dahlia when you were her lover in the 18th century in your earlier life."
So he planted the flower there, finding out only afterwards that the words of the wind had been true. The crane that had landed on the neighbor's roof the next day was a sign from Marie's ghost brought to him by his former love by the wind. The crane, Marie's favorite bird, the ballet dancer.

Like the wind, life itself and the circumstances that surrounded them spoke to them. That day, after everything was done, Keenan could rest his foot, waiting for their guests, thinking about what the circumstances told him.
Sitting on the couch, drinking bubbly water, Keenan realized that his spiritual awakening had reached its zenith during this strange time. In personal regression meditations, through dreams and signs, he had found out that he had been on a karmic journey for 700 years, one that was coming to a close now. As weird as this Corona Quarantine was, there were spiritual awakening processes that would not have been possible without it in this time. This hard been a time without compulsive obligations, less stress, more family, much thought, loads of creativity, a steady payment from his theatre and only few official assignments.
Keenan had always trusted God. His outer world had always mirrored his inner thought, even to exact phrase formulations, totally unexpected.
So he knew that all would be well.

As he sat there on his couch with his feet up, looking at the Christmas tree, it came to him in a revelation. Of sorts, anyway. Again, the slow blow of the breeze outside the window inspired words that came by themselves into his brain. They had been brought to his mind by the angels that had been on riding that wind.
They were words of comfort, words that spoke to him beyond the realms of time and space, words that assured him again that all would be well.
"People believe in different things," the wind said. "They even battle each other for their beliefs, fearing others that believe something they do not. One person fears this worst pandemic since the plague, the quarantine the only way out. The other person fears this worst conspiracy since the dawn of time, awareness of that the only way out. The one person fears every But everyone fears the same thing. One could say both fears are mirrors of each other and not one of them are completely correct."

Keenan had written a thousand stories and articles about the world not being in harmony. But now he realized that the tug-of-war he had felt all his life, being a ping pong ball between opposing forces, somehow had a mirror in society through the split of conviction. Peter Ustinov had even said that years ago in a live show.
"Our convictions divide us, our doubts unify us."

So, that day, his wife working, his daughter eating breakfast, Keenan strolled into the garden, watching the holy Dahlias and the amorous magnolias. He felt the cooing wind caress his face. It still made the sound of a satisfied woman being made love to. He looked up at his bedroom window, remembering how the sound had started a process that had lead him here. Keenan admired women, dreamt repeatedly about beautiful women who wanted to make love to him. But he knew that these women in his dreams were spiritual beings wanting to make love to his soul, one of his guardian angels even a mistress from a former life: Marie Antoinette, whom he had wanted to save, but never could. These sweet dreams were products of spiritual awakening, an energy of love.

Every moment of his life had been meant to be. Every moment of his life had been filled with synchronicity. Matching songs, matching phrases, matching numbers. Standing in his garden that day, so close to Christmas, he realized how valuable this quarantine had been. In spite of the fact that it was unusual, improbable, incredible, unacceptable, seemingly unsolvable, this time had brought him closer to the angels.

Chasing. He had been chasing so many things in life. Chasing kicks. Chasing enemies for their forgiveness. Chasing loose women, but running away from those he had feared. Chasing fame. Chasing the wind.

It was time to trust. Time for faith. Time to stop planning every phrase he said. Time to stop constricting his emotional life. This quarantine had been smack filled with spiritual lessons. It was to start existing, simple consciousness based in trust and love.

As Keenan swiftly like the amorous breeze wandered into his house again through the terrace door, sounds of Andrea Bocceli singing his high B naturals came rushing in from the living room. His daughter had turned on "A Christmas Carol" with Jim Carrey as Scrooge, but these were the end credits, the crippled boy Tiny Tim's words turned into amazing music by Alan Silvestri. The stingy miser Ebenezer had been changed into a better person by the power of the angels.
Not a word was said. Father and daughter simply sat there, inspired by these lyrics based on a story about a man seeing the light.
Keenan's daughter completely forgot about the buttered scone on her plate. And when her mother wandered in through the door, coming home from work, the whole family ended up on the couch, listening to the beautiful music.
In a beautiful moment's angelic revelation, a rush of spiritual light boosting out of his third and forth chakras, Keenan felt the upcoming spiritual awakening of the world and what it was all about. As he sat there with his dear wife and daughter, he felt the simplicity of creation inside his spirit. Tiny Tim's words from Charles Dickens book were unconditional. Everyone included, great and small, confused and frustrated, patient and impatient, weak and strong.
The sensation of being in unison with everything in existence was so powerful, tears of overwhelmed joy came streaming down his face. It was the wind of change, the sensation of being one with everything.
His wife Roberta and his daughter Suzanne both looked at Keenan, compassion.
"Daddy, what's the matter?"
Keenan smiled through his tears, opening his arms and including both his girls in a tender embrace.
Keenan knew the truth: how important it was to forgive even the meanest of creatures. Gandhi, Jesus, Buddha and all the ascended masters had all pointed to the only healing mechanism in the universe: unconditional love. Forgiving everyone. Ending impatience and fear forever That and that alone could save the world.
"God bless us, everyone!"
The three souls that had chosen to incarnate as a family joined in a mutual hug, sitting on the couch, snuggled up, their entire quantum energy asking the eternal universe to guide them on their way, the miracle of family creating the treasure of healing.
Husband, wife and daughter joined in the giving spirit, their words again repeating what a little 19th century boy once had said just to wake people up that no creature is seperate from the other. The great awakening could be formulated in four words.
"God bless us, everyone!"
And so, again, there was hope inside the sweet breeze of the soul called love.

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