TUNE IN
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GOOD READS
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The Huffington Post:
Merging Into Mystery: Music as a Bridge to Healing and Unconditional Love by Flicka Rahn I have heard that enlightenment can come in small transient experiences or, in the case of many spiritual masters, as a constant and grounded state of Divine Being.
When I was eight years old, I had a profound experience that set me on a path that I would follow my entire life. It was a beautiful Texas afternoon and I was lying on my back in my front yard looking at the clouds moving gently across the sky. As I lay there, not really thinking, I experienced a burst of clarity and awareness. I knew that I was connected to those clouds above me. I was in awe of some profound mystery that unfolded at that moment, a feeling of union that was totally new to me. That memory is emblazoned on my heart: I can remember the smell of the grass, the sensation of warmth on my back from the earth, and the gentleness of the breeze as it moved over my face. As a young child, certainly, I could not fully understand what I had experienced that day. I now realize that I had briefly connected with the Divine Presence and had been allowed my first tiny glimpse of enlightenment. Continue Reading |
Chronicals of Cosmic Hilarity with Flicka & David
Is God Dead? Where Has He Gone?
We are feeling alone. Ungrounded. Anxious.
The world reflects our trauma and tears—and somewhere deep in our aching human hearts, a child’s voice in us still cries:
“Where is our Father God? Why has He abandoned us?”
But this is not abandonment.
This is transformation.
The children are growing up.
We no longer want to plead for drops of comfort from a distant sky-father.
We want relationship.
We want the living presence of God—not concepts, not equations, not theories, not opinions.
The maturing human wants the experience of love of God as near. As present. As Beloved.
God has never left.
God has always been within us.
Now the call is not to beg—but to recognize. To awaken to the divine already moving through our bodies,
already whispering in our desires,
already trembling in our longings for intimacy, union, meaning, and truth.
The false god—distant, judging, silent—is dying.
And in his place, the Beloved is rising. Not as a figure in the clouds,
but as a lover at your side. Not as a robed being from a pulpit but as
breath in your lungs. Current flowing in your body. A pulse in your root. A kiss on your cheek.
A hand in your hand.
This is the quiet revolution underway in the Age of Aquarius.
God is not dead. God has become near.
The new temple is not morter and stone but the human heart.
The new priesthood is those who remember how to love.
And the new revelation is not written on stone, unreachable and screaming from a mountaintop,
but lived—in shared presence, sacred touch, quiet devotion, and radical intimacy.
God is not theory. God is not far.
God is YOU, remembering.
God is love, becoming real.
And the Beloved is waking up--
in you.
The Age of the Beloved has begun.
With love,
Flicka and David
When the Veil is Thin: Holding the World Without Collapsing Into It
There is a death cycle moving through the world.
Systems are failing. Illusions are cracking.
People are sick in body and in soul.
Families are grieving.
The air feels heavy with endings.
And still—love whispers.
We’re not speaking of romantic fantasy or spiritual bypass.
We’re speaking of the most radical act available to us:
To become vessels of flowing love.
Not just in ceremony. Not just in moments of clarity.
But at the grocery store.
At the gas station.
In the car with a stranger.
With the person who is suffering beside us, and the one who cannot yet see.
To love—not instead of heartbreak, but through it.
We do not turn away from suffering.
We see it. We honor it. We let it break our hearts open.
Because that breaking—painful as it is—makes room for the light.
Yes, the world is dying.
Yes, a new one is being born.
And each moment of love expressed is part of the scaffolding of that new world.
It is easy to believe that rage will change things.
That despair will somehow prove our depth.
But in truth, what heals is presence.
What rebuilds is grace in motion.
So if you are grieving, feel it.
If you are weary, rest.
And when you rise—love anyway.
Every moment is an opportunity to form the reality that is already shimmering on the horizon.
Not in the future. Now.
Love is how it arrives.
Become the place where hope still breathes.
No exceptions.
There is a death cycle moving through the world.
Systems are failing. Illusions are cracking.
People are sick in body and in soul.
Families are grieving.
The air feels heavy with endings.
And still—love whispers.
We’re not speaking of romantic fantasy or spiritual bypass.
We’re speaking of the most radical act available to us:
To become vessels of flowing love.
Not just in ceremony. Not just in moments of clarity.
But at the grocery store.
At the gas station.
In the car with a stranger.
With the person who is suffering beside us, and the one who cannot yet see.
To love—not instead of heartbreak, but through it.
We do not turn away from suffering.
We see it. We honor it. We let it break our hearts open.
Because that breaking—painful as it is—makes room for the light.
Yes, the world is dying.
Yes, a new one is being born.
And each moment of love expressed is part of the scaffolding of that new world.
It is easy to believe that rage will change things.
That despair will somehow prove our depth.
But in truth, what heals is presence.
What rebuilds is grace in motion.
So if you are grieving, feel it.
If you are weary, rest.
And when you rise—love anyway.
Every moment is an opportunity to form the reality that is already shimmering on the horizon.
Not in the future. Now.
Love is how it arrives.
Become the place where hope still breathes.
No exceptions.
When the Waters Rise
Sometimes, the waters rise in the night. And the prayers we whispered over our children seem to disappear into silence. Twenty-seven young lives lost in a Texas flood. Children who went to camp to sing about Jesus and laugh with friends under the trees. Parents who trusted God to keep them safe. How do we hold faith when something like this happens? We don’t have answers. No words can make this pain smaller or easier to bear.
But we believe this: God has not abandoned you. God weeps with you. God is closer than your breath, even when you cannot feel Him.
Jesus stood at Lazarus’s tomb and wept, even though He knew life would come again. Grief does not mean you’ve lost your faith. It means you loved deeply. If you’re angry, God understands. If you feel numb, He is patient. You don’t have to force your heart to heal.
To the parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends: Your children were precious. They mattered. They were deeply loved.
May you feel, even in small moments, that you are not alone. We stand beside you, praying for light in your darkness.
Sometimes, the waters rise in the night. And the prayers we whispered over our children seem to disappear into silence. Twenty-seven young lives lost in a Texas flood. Children who went to camp to sing about Jesus and laugh with friends under the trees. Parents who trusted God to keep them safe. How do we hold faith when something like this happens? We don’t have answers. No words can make this pain smaller or easier to bear.
But we believe this: God has not abandoned you. God weeps with you. God is closer than your breath, even when you cannot feel Him.
Jesus stood at Lazarus’s tomb and wept, even though He knew life would come again. Grief does not mean you’ve lost your faith. It means you loved deeply. If you’re angry, God understands. If you feel numb, He is patient. You don’t have to force your heart to heal.
To the parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends: Your children were precious. They mattered. They were deeply loved.
May you feel, even in small moments, that you are not alone. We stand beside you, praying for light in your darkness.
