Temples are exhausted from holding petitions, prayers and echoes. The walls are slowly melting.

The desires for privileges are consumed in a war of materials.

The horizons seem sawed, as if a piece were missing.

The nights grow late... and interest wanes every day.

 These details may constitute a reflection of the species' movement of consciousness.

A reflection.

And so it is that the Prayerful Call places us in that reflection, to tell us again that every being is a temple. To tell us again that privilege, achievement and attainment.... is not the path to liberation.

It emphasises that horizon that shows itself with saw teeth, as if life were running out in these lands.

It calls us, the Praying Call, to infinity. And liberate our consciences of the terminal saw of a life of dramas.

And it is true that every being has a point of regret feeling; as if something is missing.

Yes, that conversion of becoming conscious of being a creative expression is missing.

And as a creative expression of the Creative Mystery, when it arises, when it appears, when little by little the regretful situation begins, that creative expression warns us, claims to us that this is not the answer; that this is a learned consciousness, that we have been taught, in the face of the lack or the difficulty for achievement, for attainment or belonging. An obstacle course... loaded with reasons.

Heavy burden that chromicises sensations, making them tools with form and manner, when they are expressions of soul -without form-, of inspiration; that, when submitted to reason, vanish or become habit and habit of compassion, of that tremulous compassion.

We are presented with a so-called "evolution", loaded with repetitions... and failed hopes.

 So failed, that they are endured because of the personal anxiety to show, to get, to control, to dominate...

They are signs of apparent strength, but of weak sensitivity; devoid of the breath of infinity.

Claims, conversion, faith.

Claims, conversion, hope.

Claims, conversion, humility.

It claims for conversion, for love without profit, without demands, without impositions, without conditions.

Love... humility... hope... faith... are the threads of Providence. They are the ones used by the great Creator Mystery, with the puppet of humanity.

They sound -in general- like theories, they sound like empty temples. And they sound like relics, because love is already reasonable and negotiable; because hope is already calculated expectation; because humility is already the loss of personal appetite; because faith is... is an entelechy, a mist.

Yes. Man, as humanity, has the answers to conversion... and he chooses not to carry it out, sure of his achievements and possessions, ambitious in its beginning, development and end. Today, the most educated people wield it as the great discovery. They proclaim death as the final victory, and life, a disguise to reach it, in which any action is worth, as long they win, produce, own, control or dominate.

In former times, the stories tell that, when the being was disturbed, it turned to "the temple" and there it rescued its identity.

Perhaps it understood that temples had to be built where all its troubles were housed... and finally reached the dark and whining stale smell.

It was difficult to conceive that the temple was oneself: that place that generates consciousness when it is disposed to emptiness, when it offers itself to silence, when it is freed of its personal importance.

There, when that happens, it is in the temple. Which is the echo of the silence of the Creative Mystery; which is the echo of inspiration; which is the echo of chance, of surprise, of discovery without seeking.

 Yes, that conversion is sought. It is searched for as something lost, but it is known to be there. It is sought as something hidden, but it is known to be evident. It is sought as something precious, but one does not know how to look at it.

The Prayerful Call gathers us in our senses, to look, hear, taste, smell, feel... inside. The exterior is appearance.

This is the conversion: when we have our senses... towards that inner emptiness that rumbles so that our appearance can be shown.

 Attracted by vanity of power, by applause of egomania, by idolatrous desire to supplant, to declare oneself judge, party, defendant... -all at the same time-, in that "free will" that is shown to us as omnipotence.

 It is akin to standing on a cliff and stepping forward.

There will always be other culprits.

 With all of them, with the entire conditional, conditioning sorrows, all this does not... does not manage to hide the heartbeat of the convert, the one who feels like a verse, who feels like a poem.

 It is... more than "easy", habitual, customary... And that is what the sayings, the nuts and bolts are for: to corroborate that "this is the way things are". What a terrible phrase! It is a perpetual prison. But, however much the being may want to eternalise itself in its destruction, the heartbeat of its essence is there, ready, available.

I was not born "bad" par excellence, nor was I born "good" and they perverted me. I was born out of Eternal love.

That's quite different!

By placing ourselves in the reference of Creation, that throbbing echo of our origin becomes audible, becomes palpable, becomes revealing.

 And nothing special needs to be done, except to be willing and available... without the imposed roots of the proposed reasons. Those that we have been given, sold, and we have bought for guarantee and security…

Of what?

 Ah, yes!: of vanities. They need to be safe, because their breath is perishable. Perishable. The replacements are near. New vanities will come, which will make yours an entelechy.

 Is it worth insuring them? Are they really insured?

How important is the important!, right? How important is what is important!... that makes, being, deal with what is important.

 Yes, of course! Immediately the different and infinite variables of importance appear. And an army of warning-precautions surrounds each importance. It is a way of making ourselves important.

Does the important exist... or has it been an important and imported import?

The play on words is beautiful, because it shows us the falseness, the vain appearance of the important.

Let... let... observe for a moment... the importance. Look at it from afar. Maybe it's not so important.

Without attachments, there are no condemnations of appreciation.

Adding defence, to what knows how to defend itself, is an inadequate redundancy.

The Prayerful Call calls us to version ourselves, to version ourselves....

Let us discover our version... in that interior of senses, in that unfathomable emptiness.

Open ourselves to listening to the original heartbeat. The one which does not claim prominence. The one that gives us consciousness of being and to be.

Love, humility, hope, faith!... like a new radiance of which we are aware, but which has been reasonably displaced.

If we activate it, we enter our version...; we become renewed echoes... ready towards a new assembly.

The prayerful warning is present, now! There is no need to think about it, "to see if...".

 Praying is the immediate moment of passing in the Universe.

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