The True Birth

 

Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, when the world tucks away its noisy outlines, I return to the beginning. I think of that primal act by which we enter reality. We are born physically, passing through the narrow, suffocating passage of flesh, through that first dark tunnel that knows neither words nor thoughts, only blind trust, pressure, and an irresistible, cruel direction forward. But more and more often, I think that this is only the beginning of a much longer birth. That our entire life in this physical dimension is not a state of completion, but a continuing birthing process, simply in another form.

All the walls we crash into as we walk through our days. All the pains that have forced us into silence. All the wounds, resistances, contradictions, and limitations—they are not punishment, nor are they accidents. They are our ongoing labor pains. This is a spiritual passage through the narrowness of human existence. The truth that shines through the veil of the everyday is that we are not yet truly born. The time we live is like the chronology of a prolonged, sometimes agonizing approach toward a light we cannot yet bear. Oh, this shaking and friction, this constant scraping of the soul against the rough matter of days—it seems like the mere mechanics of motion, a forced inertia. But perhaps movement is the only condition for life. Perhaps the world has been given to us as a learning model, a material school where objects are trials and the lessons are 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 such a mysterious teacher. It presses me against my own limits and makes me recognize the form into which I have been placed. But who placed the form? And can it expand if the soul insists on more space?

If I look through the prism of psychoanalysis, the primal trauma of birth never leaves the body or the psyche. It remains there, like a quiet background noise. Perhaps my entire existence is simply a complex adaptation to that first encounter with limitation. An encounter 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, as the acceptance of form. That is likely why our consciousness has split, dividing into layers, into defenses, into other necessities. It tries to protect itself from the abrupt entry into a world of flesh, gravity, and rules, a world of destruction and forgetting. These inner abysses, these fractures through which the soul tries to breathe, are simultaneously a mechanism for survival and a call for wholeness. They are the scars of our landing.

And yet, I continue forward. Life pushes me. The canal does not end after the newborn’s first cry. It merely changes its material. Instead of water and flesh, now the birth canal is made of time, events, attachments, and fears. This is 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 break from within. When the fruit will ripen and my true birth will begin. There, where there is no longer any fear of the light.

I search within myself for that center which knows who I am before I began to adapt. Before I shattered my thoughts to survive. Before I began to bend under the walls of the world like branches in the wind. Sometimes, deep inside, I sense 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 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.

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 umbilical cord, still uncut. God as mother. Love as the space waiting to be inhabited. And perhaps that is exactly why pain is so frequent a companion. It is the memory of the soul that refuses to accept its narrow frames. Pain is also the final proof that I am still moving, that I am 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 question mark at the end, 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 understood that freedom exists only beyond fear. I await that moment when my inner sea will whisper: "It is time." Then I will be able to enter form without the splitting of consciousness, to inhabit myself fully—connected, luminous. Then the movement inward and outward will become one and the same motion—breathing. And everything that life now presents to me as a collision, as a limitation, as a wall, will reveal itself simply as the path toward my birth.

The world does not press me to crush 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 the 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. And 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 most importantly—God waits.

Oh, perhaps this entire birth has another, deeper, more cosmic perspective. When I look at the sky, the Sun seems like our visible 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 blood of the same Mother. And then the Earth appears not merely as a planet, but as a Womb. A place where souls not only live but ripen, mature as future gods, as 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 consume, every breath is transformed light. Sunlight that traveled through leaves, turned into matter. And then a question arises, quiet and piercing like a revelation: Who fertilized the Earth? Who brought the spark that turned her into a cradle of gods? And I feel the answer. Ancient spirits. Spirits coming from a primordial light, from antiquity, 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. Spirit gives the direction upward. The power to be truly born, to cross the abyss between the temporal and the eternal.

By ourselves, we, the souls, 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, movement 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 sees 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 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 seeds. 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 the 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. Quietly. Unceasingly. Expectantly.