The dusk sky does not complain when the evening stars come out, nor is the silence which prevails between the realms of day and night an indication of some absence.
Ours is not a light that briefly shines, only to inevitably be extinguished. In this wide world, which is a trickster’s shifting stage, pleasure and pain alternate with each other perpetually, but they have nothing to do with who and what we really are.
Place your hand over my heart – the silence shining there is not an absence. I am reaching out of some darkness to share my humble piece of light with yours, letting whatever moves me have its voice, though my head is like a lump of stone, gently placed at your doorway in this home away from home.
There are infinite forms of expression, though none of them are “it”, except that all of them are, as all of us are – each a fractal of some incomprehensible immensity.
Amidst tentative sighs and murmurs in the dark, these arms are reaching out like some sleepwalker on a dream mission, drawn mysteriously into the waiting embrace of the holy lover.
Pure light slides into itself in a rapturous sexual union, then ecstatically gives birth to the infinite cosmos, yielding this bliss of divine ignorance, the same timeless space in which we find ourselves afloat, at peace, at one.
Emerging from the ceremony of that sacred fire, let’s allow the weightless ashes from our personal holocausts to scatter in all directions, nurturing the tender new growth, the flowerings spawned from our mindless loving here.
In our naked vulnerability, unafraid, we can gladly open like the waiting hand of a smiling child to eagerly receive the whole blessed thing and then spontaneously offer it back to That from whence it came.
Compelled by forces beyond my ken, I’m improvising little songs to the void, just happy to sing some sweet old rhymes recalled from the ancient innocent days:
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
you make me happy when skies are gray;
you’ll never know Dear, you’ll never
know Dear, you’ll never
know, Dear. . .”
Ah, Beloved of my heart, can you hear me now, the soft wan voice inside of every yearning, the yearning to be done at last with any yearning, and yet the worship of that very yearning, of life reaching out to itself eternally, only to finally relax and fall so deeply into itself, singing softly to the choir of itself, always so endearingly just slightly out of tune?