#divineembodiment

A wheelchair gospel

I see what most people miss.

Not because I’m wiser—just lower. Slower.

Closer to the ground.

When you move through the world in a wheelchair, you start to notice.

You have to.

That flicker of movement? Could be a child. Could be a crack. Could be a snake.

You pay attention—not out of fear, but out of presence.

You start to remember you’re an animal too.

Flesh. Reflex. Instinct.

Not hovering above the world, but in it. Rolling through it. A creature among creatures.

The lizard crosses the path and I say hello.

The breeze shifts and I know it means something.

I don’t take my feet for granted—or the sidewalk, or the sky.

That’s the wheelchair way.

Not some noble burden. Just… truth. Just awareness.

I don’t get to ignore things moving beneath me.

Which means I don’t pretend I’m above them either.

Most people forget we cohabitate.

They live as if the earth is beneath them, not with them.

As if animals are decoration. As if danger is a glitch.

As if judgment is for someone else.

But I’ve seen it coming.

In the insects skittering out before a storm.

In the silence that falls before a system breaks.

In the way the world tilts when something sacred is about to happen.

So I’m just saying—

If you’ve been walking too fast to notice the world speaking back to you,

if you’ve stopped greeting the sky,

if you think the lizard is beneath your notice—

Slow down.

The Kingdom is not in the clouds.

It’s not in power or distance or perfection.

It’s here.

Low.

Crawling.

Rolling.

Breathing.

And if you want to be ready,

maybe it’s time you come down to the ground,