Chapter 6 · The Spirit Remembers

Abundance

Cristina do Valle Mirrors of the Infinite

What I have seen, I cannot unsee; And so is matter defined, That what is witnessed exists, That what is alive resists its demise. Where is the picture I placed in your hands; A window into another time, Another form of me, Suspended between worlds like a lantern in mist? Shred it to ribbons, Scatter its ashes across an ocean trench, Let currents erase every trace… Still it endures, Its code of being humming just beyond the veil. If even an image cannot be undone, What of the vessel it depicts? This intricate body, Breath and starlight woven into bone? And if flesh carries the memory of its own making, What of the mind that summoned it, The consciousness behind the frame? We are not fragile things. We are sparks of the Eternal Flame, Fragments of a Source that cannot fracture. Separation is a clever illusion; Wholeness is inevitable; A magnet calling home its scattered stars, Each one blazing back To the heart that dreamed it.

Reflection

This poem came from a place of awe; one of those rare moments where the illusion of fragility fell away, and I could sense the indestructible nature of existence. It wasn’t an intellectual realization; it was visceral, like catching a glimpse behind the veil and knowing, with certainty, that life is eternal.

The poem begins with something as simple as a picture, an image that could be torn up, burned, or sunk into the ocean, and yet, I felt so strongly that even that image was indestructible. Not because of the paper or ink, but because of the pattern it represents, the code of its creation. This insight expanded to include the body, consciousness, and all life. Nothing real can truly be destroyed.

The lesson of this piece is that wholeness is not something to chase or earn; it is already present, encoded into the very fabric of being. Like a magnet calling back scattered pieces of itself, life is always seeking reunion. This is why spiritual awakening feels like remembering rather than achieving. It’s already all here.

The distortion this poem helped dissolve was my old belief in separation and loss. I wrote this at a time when grief weighed heavily on me; grief over relationships, over mortality, over the impermanence of everything I loved. This poem came through like a lifeline, showing me that nothing real can be lost because everything exists beyond form. Even what appears destroyed carries the blueprint of its return.

There’s also a mystical edge to this piece: it’s as if I was given a glimpse into how creation really works, beyond human understanding. The “magnet calling back its pieces” felt less like a metaphor and more like a memory, like I was briefly remembering the way Source gathers itself, lifetime after lifetime, moment after moment, back into perfect wholeness.

“Abundance…” reminds me that true abundance isn’t about accumulation. It’s about knowing that everything is already whole, already eternal, already part of us. This understanding brings deep peace. It’s why this poem feels less like something I wrote and more like something that was revealed to me, a truth I was allowed to touch for a moment and bring back to share.

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