The Modern Mystic.

There are moments — soft, unannounced — when the veil thins and something ancient unexpectedly slips through.

It doesn’t arrive as doctrine. It doesn’t thunder. It doesn’t demand belief. It comes instead as a clarity without edges, a knowing that feels older than thought, gentler than most language, truer than anything you could ever prove.

In such moments, one truth unfurls first: We came here to enlarge love. Not the delicate love made of sentiment, but the underlying architecture of the universe —the coherence that holds the stars in their place and the cells in their sacred geometry.

In this moment I am reminded — this is the work. The real work. And the opposing force is always the same: a forgetting, a fracturing, the ancient lie of separation that masquerades as anger, division, cruelty, or certainty.

When humanity forgets, the mystic remembers — or is remembered by something greater. This is the quiet role of the modern mystic: not to teach, but to tune.

To trust. To step outside the walls of logic. To stand in a room and shift the field without speaking. To become a presence through which others recall themselves. To walk as a resonance that gently strives to awaken everything around it.

The Hero’s Journey is not linear. On such a path, the dangers are subtle, but real — ego dressed in luminescence, certainty disguised as wisdom, a bypassing that floats above life instead of incarnating into it.

But the deeper truth is always patient, and it persists: Your presence is transmission. For better or worse. The mystic resists the seduction of answers and embraces the holy trembling of uncertainty — because not-knowing is not a void but an aperture. Through it, the Infinite breathes light into our darkest places.

Today there is a courage required that looks nothing like bravado: the courage to face the inner places we have arranged our entire lives to avoid. The courage to ask the one question that rearranges everything: What truth have I postponed?

For the bravest souls in the universe are not those who battle dragons — but those who face themselves without flinching. And something remarkable happens when one stops resisting their own depths: clarity arrives like a tide that was always coming for you.

Clarity about why you’re here. Clarity about what you already knew. Clarity about the task you agreed to long before breath entered your lungs.

It is never complicated: Awaken remembrance wherever you walk. Not through force. Not through argument. Through the quiet contagion of coherence.

And if all else fades — if the hours thin, if mortality tightens its radius — there are few things that still matter: Love without reserve. Hold nothing back. Leave no truth unspoken.

Because you were born to remember, and the remembering is rippling outward faster than you know. And on the days when the world feels dimmed, or heavy, or unbearably loud, remember this:

The deeper the night, the more fiercely the stars declare themselves. Suffering is not punishment. It is the aperture through which hidden light enters.

And when the mystic walks with hands open, heart steady, and lungs full of shimmering uncertainty, the universe leans closer. Because it recognizes one of its own.

Remember this, dear Mystics:

Love the questions more than the answers. Dissolve separation wherever it hides. At the end of the day, kindness matters more than almost anything else.

Cheryl A. Page