The inspiration came suddenly again to surrender to the Mother.

Host: The ash-colored dawn crept slowly through the hermitage, its light trembling over stone floors polished by years of quiet prayer. The forest beyond was still, the mist clinging like memory to every leaf. Inside, the smell of incense lingered—a faint, sacred scent that belonged more to silence than to air.

Host: Jack sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his eyes closed, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The faint flame of a lamp flickered beside him. Across the room, Jeeny stood by the window, watching the first light break over the trees, her face caught between reverence and doubt.

Host: Outside, a single bird sang, its voice threading through the hush like a stitch holding the world together.

Jeeny: (softly) “Bede Griffiths once wrote, ‘The inspiration came suddenly again to surrender to the Mother. It was quite unexpected. And so somehow I made a surrender to the Mother. Then I had an experience of overwhelming love. Waves of love sort of flowed into me.’”

Host: Her voice carried like a whispered prayer, dissolving into the light as she turned to face Jack.

Jeeny: “Do you think that’s possible, Jack? To just… surrender—and be met with love instead of loss?”

Jack: (opening his eyes slowly) “Surrender, Jeeny, is just a poetic word for defeat. We dress it in spiritual robes, but it’s the same thing—giving up control.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s letting go, not giving up. Griffiths wasn’t talking about losing; he was talking about belonging—to something larger, something that moves through you.”

Host: The flame wavered. A breeze from the open window caught it, bending it low, but not extinguishing it.

Jack: “Belonging is another illusion. We crave to dissolve into something bigger because we can’t stand the weight of being ourselves. ‘Surrender to the Mother,’ he says—as if love can erase the burden of consciousness.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “Maybe it doesn’t erase it. Maybe it heals it. Think about it, Jack—he was a man torn between worlds: faith and reason, East and West, body and spirit. And then one moment—surrender—and the walls between them just… fall.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a revelation. But it sounds more like escapism to me. A man loses himself in mysticism to avoid facing the truth of the world.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he finally faced it completely. The truth that no logic, no achievement, no identity can satisfy the soul. That there’s something deeper waiting beneath all our definitions.”

Host: The light outside grew brighter, filling the room with a slow, golden warmth. The incense smoke curled upward, like spirit taking visible form.

Jack: “You’re talking about God.”

Jeeny: “Not God as an idea. God as experience. Griffiths wasn’t reciting theology; he was drowning in love. You can’t explain that—you can only feel it.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Love, experience, surrender—they’re all just chemical storms in the brain. Dress it up however you want, it’s still biology pretending to be divine.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain awe, Jack? Or the way silence can break your heart open? The way the world sometimes feels like it’s looking back at you?”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty—it was full, trembling with the weight of what couldn’t be spoken. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the window, where the sunlight was now spilling across the floor, touching the mat, his hands, his heart.

Jack: (quietly) “I had that once. Years ago. A feeling like the whole world was… breathing through me. It was so overwhelming I almost couldn’t stand it. And then—it was gone. It never came back.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Because you didn’t surrender to it. You tried to keep it.”

Jack: “Wouldn’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. Because love isn’t meant to be held. It’s meant to be entered.”

Host: She reached out and touched his hand, and for a moment, the tension that always lived between them—skeptic and believer, mind and heart—softened.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Griffiths meant by ‘Mother.’ Not a deity. Not a doctrine. Just the unconditional presence that receives us when we stop fighting everything.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And if there’s no one there to receive you?”

Jeeny: “Then the love comes from within. The ‘Mother’ is the part of you that’s been waiting to forgive yourself.”

Host: The forest light deepened, spilling gold through the open window, painting their faces in tender contrast. For the first time, Jack’s eyes softened—his skepticism cracked, if only slightly.

Jack: “You make surrender sound like… falling upward.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. You stop trying to rise, and suddenly you float.”

Host: The sound of the birdsong returned, brighter now, joined by another, then another—like the world exhaling.

Jeeny: “Bede Griffiths said those waves of love flowed into him. I think that’s what happens when you finally stop building walls inside yourself. The divine isn’t somewhere else—it’s what’s been waiting behind all the noise.”

Jack: “And yet… the world outside still burns. People suffer, wars rage, oceans rise. How do you sit in a forest and talk about waves of love while everything falls apart?”

Jeeny: “Because maybe the world’s suffering comes from the same thing—our refusal to surrender. We keep trying to control, own, dominate. Maybe the only cure is to stop resisting the Mother—to stop resisting life itself.”

Host: A long pause followed—so long that even the sound of their breathing became part of the dialogue. Jack looked down at his hands, then at the faint light brushing the lines of his palms.

Jack: “You know… for the first time in years, I feel… quiet.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t think. Just let it happen.”

Host: The camera of the soul drew closer—his eyes closing again, his face softening, a single tear slipping free without pain. The sunlight warmed it as it fell.

Host: The lamp flame steadied; the mist outside lifted. Something unseen but undeniable filled the room—not sound, not scent, but presence.

Jeeny: “There it is, Jack.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The surrender.”

Host: For a moment, everything—the light, the forest, the air, even the space between their hearts—stilled.

Host: And in that stillness, it felt as though waves of love—ancient, patient, infinite—rose and flowed into them, not as vision, not as miracle, but as truth rediscovered.

Host: Outside, the sun fully broke through the trees, flooding the hermitage with gold. The day had begun, and with it, a quiet rebirth.

Host: The Mother was not in the heavens, nor in scripture. She was in the act of letting go—and in the peace that followed.