Diary Essay – Spiritual Birth

Diary Essay – Spiritual Birth

We are born physically, passing through the narrow passage of flesh — through that first dark tunnel that knows neither words nor thoughts, only thrusts, pressure, and an irresistible direction forward.
But perhaps that is only the beginning of a much longer birth. Life in the physical dimension continues to be a birth canal in another form. All the walls we crash into; all the pains that fold us into silence; all the wounds, resistances, contradictions, and limitations — they are our ongoing birth, a spiritual passage through the narrowness of human existence.

And we, in truth, are not yet truly born. The time we live is like the chronology of a prolonged “approach” toward a light we still cannot bear. All the “shaking and rubbing,” the friction of the soul against the rough matter of the days, seems like a mere mechanics of motion, a forced inertia.
But perhaps movement is the condition of life. Perhaps the world has been given to us as a learning model, a material school where the objects are trials, and the lessons — the darkness through which we must pass in order to learn to see.

Sometimes I feel that striving itself is pain — that life pulls me forward while I am not yet ready, or perhaps precisely because of that. Pain is a mysterious teacher — it presses me against my own limits and makes me recognize the form I’ve been placed into.
But who placed the form? And can it expand if the soul insists on more space?

From a psychoanalytic view, the first trauma — birth — never leaves the body or psyche. Perhaps my entire existence is an adaptation to that first encounter with limitation, with a world that greets me as a stranger and demands that I part with the infinity of my previous state. To “fit” into reality, to take the first breath as the first compromise — the assumption of form.

Perhaps that is why consciousness splits. Dividing into layers, into “othernesses,” it tries to protect itself from the abrupt entry into a world of flesh, gravity, and rules. Distraction, forgetting, inner chasms — fractures through which the soul tries to breathe. These splittings are both a mechanism of survival and a loss of wholeness.

And yet I continue forward — life pushes me. The canal does not end after the first cry. It merely changes its material — instead of water and flesh, it is now made of time, events, attachments, fears. A continuation of the same birth.
And I move through it, sometimes obediently, sometimes in despair, but always with a quiet, almost timid expectation: that the moment will come when the waters will flow from within, when the fruit will ripen and my true birth will begin — there, where there is no longer any fear of light.

I search within myself for that center which knows. Who am I before I began to adapt? Before I shattered my thoughts to survive? Before I began to bend under the laws of the world like branches under wind? Somewhere deep inside I feel that there is a core untouched by the trauma of entering form — a silence that existed before the voice, a light that was not yet blinded by the walls of life.

Surely the true birth is the moment when we return to that core and manage to express it in form without splitting again. To root ourselves in the world without losing the sky. To be flesh and spirit in a single unbroken line — the hidden bridge between earth and eternity.

Sometimes, in the evening, when everything falls silent, I feel myself sinking into my own inner tunnel — quiet and long, without beginning or end. There I am still unborn. There I understand. There are no words, only the movement of breath that connects me to something far greater than myself. Breath as an invisible cord, still uncut.
God as mother. Love as the space waiting to be inhabited.

And perhaps that is why pain is so frequent. It is the memory of the soul that refuses to accept its narrow confines. Pain is also the final proof that I am still moving, still not “finished” as a process. I realize that wounds are cracks through which light enters — but also reminders of the barriers I have yet to lose. For in order for truth to be born within me, something must open, surrender, release…

“How long?” — I ask quietly, without a final question mark, because I do not expect an answer from time. I know the canal ends when the fruit is ripe, when the soul has softened enough through experience, expanded in pain, and has understood that freedom exists only beyond fear. That moment when the waters break and my inner sea whispers: it is time.

Then I will be able to enter form without the splitting of consciousness. To inhabit myself fully — whole, connected, luminous. Then the movement inward and outward will become the same motion — breathing.
And all that life now seems — as collision, as limitation, as wall — will reveal itself as simply the path toward my birth.

The world does not press me — it challenges me to open.

Perhaps the quietest gesture of God’s love is that He does not give birth to us immediately, but allows us to learn, to grow, to ripen — to become co-creators in our own making. One day I will understand that nothing ever deprived me of freedom — I simply was not ready for it.

Now I still walk. I still remember the darkness that pushed me toward light, and I continue to be born with every day, with every heartbeat that says: I am here, I am still on the way.
And though the channel is narrow, a quiet certainty resonates within me — every hardship is a contraction that brings me closer.

And if sometimes I close my eyes and return to that first silence, it is only to remind myself that I come from light and go toward light. Between them — life. Between them — this ongoing birth in which every breath is hope, every tear — release, and every pain — a path forward.

I am still unborn.
But I already know the way.

And perhaps the most important thing — God waits.

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Continuation – The Sun as an Umbilical Cord

Or perhaps this entire birth has another, deeper and more cosmic perspective.
The Sun — our umbilical cord, the invisible path through which light and life pour into us. Plants, animals, humans — we all feed from it, directly or through intermediaries, as though drawing from the same mother’s blood.
And then the Earth appears as a womb where souls not only live but ripen — mature as future gods, co-creators, bearers of light.

The Earth is a bioreactor of spirit, a strange and sacred incubator where we learn to create — but still timidly, like children holding a brush for the first time. Here, in this dense womb, we feed on rays even when we do not realize it. Every day, every plant we take as bread is transformed light — sunlight traveled through leaves, solar milk.

Then a question arises, quiet and piercing like revelation: Who fertilized the Earth?
Who brought the spark that made her a cradle of gods?

And I feel the answer — ancient spirits. Spirits coming from a primordial light, from the Ancientness, from that first silence where God still speaks everything into being.
Christ — as the living principle of fertilization, not in biology but in meaning. Spirit fertilizes soul. The Spirit gives the direction upward, the power to be truly born — to cross the divide between the temporal and the eternal.

We, the souls, by ourselves are like an egg without seed — potential without a springboard, an embryo unable to pierce its shell alone. We need an ancient Spirit to touch the soul in a way that awakens it to eternity. Only then can we return Home — to that Primal Homeland from which we came as sparks, but which we forget upon entering the womb of matter.

Without that touch, without divine fertilization, the soul remains trapped in cycles — rotations of birth and death, motion without passage, circling around the light without ever fully reaching it.

I think of this, and my body responds with deep breathing, as though the very air wants to remind me: you are still connected. The cord is not cut. The Sun still feeds you. The Spirit still calls you.

And here, in this dark womb of the world, where pain teaches us to feel and joy teaches us to believe, each of us carries a secret seed of immortality.
In every human being there is an ancient light waiting to be born — and perhaps, to be returned.

The Promised Land is not a place. It is a state of consciousness — the space of wholeness where inner light and outer light become one.
There we are not exiles, nor do we battle with boundaries — for we have become light itself.

Now I understand more deeply — we are not merely born on Earth. We are planted here. Prisoners, yet also sown.
And as we grow, fire flows through our roots, light breathes through our bodies. The Sun nurtures us, as a mother tends her child, until the hour of a new birth arrives — the birth in Spirit.

This is the return to the Primal Homeland — not as lost children, but as returning creators.

I am a journey between the darkness of the womb and the radiance of the beginning.
I am a germ that remembers the stars.
I am a soul awaiting to be fertilized by eternity.

And in the light that feeds me each day,
I already hear God speaking my name.