There is a flower out there that we could say represents you. This flower grows in a field of unsurpassed beauty, perhaps a field of daisies, or it may grow in a woodlands all by itself, a surprise of color popping out behind a tree, or it may grow in a pot outside someone's kitchen window, or it may grow in a pot inside the house. It may be watered daily, or it may be neglected. In any case, the flower that could represent you, no matter what, in sunlight or in shadow, grows. You are growing, and, like all flowers, you are growing toward the sun. It is inevitable. This is the way of flowers.
They live their lives rising higher. They lift their heads. They drink the rain. They blossom rapidly, or they blossom once in a lifetime. How common are flowers, and how rare are flowers. And all flowers grow to the magnet of the sun, the same way you grow to Me.
Fish swim to the same shore year after year in order to spawn. The magnet of a certain ocean side pulls them.
Where does this pull come from? It doesn't come from the outside. There is an outside, so to speak, that the little fishies and flowers bow to, yet where does the pull come from? Flowers, fish, and you have such pulls and urges from within. There is something within you that pulls you to Me. Of course, I desire you, as the sun desires flowers, and the sea its fish, and, yet, the common desire lies within you. It is built-in. It is natural.
Some would say it is in your DNA. Some would say it is in a little empty place in your heart. Some would say it is a little echo from the past. What would you say?
Where does your urge for Me and more of Me, and, therefore, more of your Self come from? What oars propel you? What boat do you sail on? From where do you come, and to where do you go? What is now, and what is thence, and so forth? Who are you? What are you? What is this life that you are so embroiled in, and who is it who is so embroiled, and what, after all, are you embroiled in?
You are the teller of a story, and the writer of it, and the reader of it, and the actor of it. You are the star of it, and, yet, you, the individual do not quite exist. You seemingly exist but more as an idea, for you, yourself, don't really know the tales of your existence or what they mean or how the imagined you came into existence, or if you came into existence at all or always existed or never existed.
Were you once a flower who practiced growing to the Sun, a fish who swam to a shore he knew not why but only that he must, and are you a human being or are you a Divine Being temporarily stationed in a human body? When all is said and done, what are you made of? Surely you are not the muscle and sinew you appear to be, nor are you the vitamins and minerals your body is made of. Somewhere within you is the Real You that is not physical unless you call a spark of light physical. You are more than electrical as well, and yet you are light, brilliant light, far-shining light, monumental light, not fractal but light itself, My light, in fact, My light in a prism of light, colorful light, the same way flowers looking up at Me and fish swimming to Me are My beautiful creations.