Here’s a liddle story for you.
Thirty odd (may have been even) years ago, I got a book for a dollar. ‘Tongues of Fire’ by Grace H. Turnbull, copyright 1929, off of a dusty Strand Book Store shelf. Loved the quiet. Loved the floor space, low pace, millions of books, more old than new, in one dusty place. Let’s get back to why we are here. A fact.

Here are a few facts.
Got the book in the eighties.
The pages are hewn unevenly.
The text is browning and brittling.
Spirit speaks in many tongues.
1929. Females are low key.
The book is energy living.

I have opened and read (relating to and not) some of the text.
Through the years, ‘Tongues of Fire’ has been a presence present.
Please don’t misread me here. I don’t need to read words to feel the presence of love.

I have never considered looking up the author, compiler, interpreter or transcriber of these works. What else did this author publish? I had no idea and obviously didn’t care. Grace Turnbull. Could be a female I thought, but assumed it was a male. In USA 1929, females weren’t recognized for their intellect and larger than man known realities. The womb births us, with or without a penis.
I was going to say something snide like, ‘Wow guys! That sucks!’, but honestly I don’t have an opinion outside of stating fact.

So, all those many words to simply say, ‘The first time I typed ‘Tongues of Fire’ in Google Search was two nights ago. I had the book out of the two ziplock bags and was gingerly turning the pages. I heard, ‘Let me breathe in natural light’.
At that moment I decided, ‘no more bags for you’. I made a place for her on the alter.

All that to say, ‘I do not need to know more than right here, right now.

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