“God is in himself so exalted that he is beyond the reach of either knowledge or desire. Desire extends further than anything that can be grasped by knowledge. It is wider than the whole of the heavens, than all angels, even though everything that lives on earth is contained in the spark of a single angel. Desire is wide, immeasurably so. But nothing that knowledge can grasp or desire can want, is God. Where knowledge and desire end, there is darkness, and there God shines.”
~ Meister Eckhart
The difference, if it exists at all,
between the common man and the saint,
might merely be to what degree one thinks
of reasons for complaint, while the other
knows without a doubt there are none.
Take desire, for example:
It’s judged by some as a deadly trap,
and hence it tends to get a bad rap.
From another angle of vision, however,
desire could be appreciated as a loving gift
the Source of desire grants itself so it can play
as two-not-two in games of being and becoming,
separation and reunion, lover and beloved.
Summer winds sift through a lifted window,
lazily drifting across our playful concupiscence
with neither judgment nor disdain.
We smile and fall into each other,
free of past, present, future.
This is how to recognize living light
for the superb design it represents –
desire lights the match of creation,
igniting a thousand poems of radiance.
Each of us, human and non-human alike,
are woven threads of desire’s poetry,
whether in motion or at rest.
Hunger and satisfaction both,
we’ll murmur no complaint –
life need not be in conflict with itself,
clinging to wry notions of purity or taint.
In our letting go
of all limiting fixations,
desire at last comes full circle
and everything sighs with joy.
Desire brought us here, desire
sweeps our fragrant petals airborne
in random winds of impersonal intent.
Here, while this soft morning breeze
scatters God as prasad over the fertile fields
of its own innocent yearning, we will float
in the transparent womb of unspeakable
light, ovulating new incarnations.
“As is your devotion, so is your liberation.” ~ Bhagavan Nityananda
Everyone can understand happiness.
Everyone knows exactly what it’s like
to be perfectly happy – how else to account
for the common and uncommon pursuit of it?
If we didn’t already know happiness,
how would we know what to search for?
If we don’t know the treasure,
why instigate the hunt?
On the other hand, if already known,
why seek it, why not simply . . .
This happiness of ours is not
any known ecstasy of body or mind,
nor does it exclude any ecstasy of body/mind.
We know this by letting go of knowing –
discarding all that merely passes through
and obscures our original innocence
in desire’s theatrical masquerades.
Our fluid union is the drowning point of knowing
in the waterfall of the mysterious unknown.
We live there, pooling into a dynamic energy
for which no poet can conjure words,
nor scholar analyze or categorize.
Everyone lives there, but most imagine
they are living someplace other, someplace
that reciprocally supports a sense of being
a someone with yet some other place
that they would rather be.
Not we –
you are the exquisite presence
of the Mystery to me, right here,
right now, before and after forever!
This Mystery might take the form
of an unbounded rapture by reincarnating
as everyone and everything, just as they are.
It’s simply that we like to return the favor
by letting what is, simply be what it is,
and refrain from interfering.
I see you, you see me.
We touch. Aahhh . . .
There is general agreement, then
it becomes more specific.
We drink each other up
like eucharistic wine.
Since we were made for each other,
we honor the Designer by disappearing
into their irresistible Design.
Over and over and over again,
we lose ourselves where
the Woodbine twine!
“The way you make Love is the way God will be with you.” ~ Rumi
I begin by simply appearing as myself,
already in Love with you –
you also appear to me as myself,
already always Love.
When the façade of myself at last
drops away, only Love remains.
This is immensely arousing.
In the mutuality of our magnetic attraction
we are drawn into the monosyllabic vernacular
of this loving, the bodily bliss of original desire,
a synchronous release of primordial desire
into our immortal bodiless-ness.
The body does not resist.
Death is irresistible –
it is a bliss of the body.
It dies into itself, this moment,
moment, moment . . .
This is what it wants –
this satisfaction of all wanting,
this unspeakably beautiful death.
Tongues dance with each other in a language
tenderly translated by the hands to touch,
the breath to commingling light, skin
grown taut yet supple, sheening,
hearts ablaze with keening,
bodies shining towards
each other, blinding
each other in light’s own desire,
the play of mindless embodiment,
consciousness yielded to its own bliss.
We let go as it expands, yielding the fruit
of its own deliciousness, the suchness
of this first kiss, this messenger of bliss,
our flesh fuel for fire, from spinal flame
to full frontal blaze, rising, brilliantly,
into a rare consuming darkness
for which there is no name.
We are not becoming God,
God is becoming us.
The way we make love is
the shape of our divinity.
It’s the space where we disappear,
washed clear in the streaming light
brimming from our soul eyes –
I know you, there is only one,
you are the one not afraid, not other
than what moves exquisitely in ancient rhythm,
ancient rhyme, knowing without knowing . . .
You are me, Beloved.
Beloved, I am You.
At night if I feel a divine loneliness I tear the doors off Love’s mansion and wrestle God onto the floor. He becomes so pleased with Hafiz and says, “Our hearts should do this more.”
If you’re longing tonight for this rapture, here –
let me bring it to you, a love offering
placed at your altar of desire.
I will worship there by stretching myself
so plushly over your innocent longing
you will breathlessly plead,
I won’t. I can’t.
You are too beautiful to resist!
Loving this suchness of you,
I am drawn to the heat of your serene
intensity, your breathless magnetism, the call
of your wanting, not wanting anything but this,
to never be severed from this ecstatic embrace,
this fragrance inescapable, the touch indelible
on the heart, now rushing to itself with arms
wide open, pulsing electric with that
for which we’ve ever yearned.
I place my head in the hollow
of your chest, and See.
What I see, you Are.
What you see looking back
at you, I Am. Between these two
no space exists, no time, no memory,
no wanting – this love has become
the perfect verb of our eternal glance,
a transmission without distance,
the word that breaks the trance.
These songs of love
offered for all sentient beings –
music trailing behind
the vanishing forms of us,