THE POINT OF INTERFACE con’t By William Samuel
When one plays the piano, the point of interface between the player and the sounded music is exactly where his fingers touch the keys. The surface of the keys is the place where the inner music of the soul becomes the outer melody in the living room or concert hall. There is no space between the fingers and the keys, just as there is no space between the Child-of-us and our fingers as we write. The Child-Soul of us is where the melody is first heard.
If one is a composer, the point of interface between the melody heard within and the melody the world hears “without,” is also at the tips of the composer’s fingers—as he plays and as he writes those notes onto a piece of paper.
So, the INTERFACE is WHERE the “inside becomes outside” and where, as we listen, the outside becomes inside. In the Thomas book, we hear Jesus say, “When you make the two one, and when you make the inner as the outer and the outer as the inner…then shall you enter the Kingdom.”
When one writes a letter or a book, the point of INTERFACE between the reader and writer is the tip of the writer’s fingers and his heart, and the eyes that read and the reader’s heart. There is no real space between the eyes, the Heart and the tips of the fingers. When the writer gets the fingers to state the Child-heart’s feeling, the interface is completed, heart to heart.
As I sit here writing these words at Woodsong’s study desk piled high with books, papers and letters, the point of interface between the Child-Heart-I-am and the entire world of time’s tangibility is the keyboard of the good Rabbi Moses Goldberg—the typewriter. The Child-Heart of me touches God on the one side, the word of time on the other. Reading these words, the reader goes straight to the writer’s Heart—and to his own, simultaneously.
As you will see very plainly in the days ahead, there is only one HEART, one child, one God. It is the same for all of us.
Excerpt from “The Child Within Us Lives!’ By
William Samuel
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And the very reason I write. I love to write. My heart, my soul bursting with love and joy must express this flowing interface between the unseen expanse of Love and this glorious tangible world of mine. Like a bird must sing, like a flower exudes its fragrance, like a flame gives heat and light. The Child of me must give, must give forth and I cannot hold her back from the words, the song of love the vision of beauty that pours from her unbound living spirit, out from her joyful heart of light. — Sandy Jones