It doesn’t matter what anyone else says or thinks. If you are not pleasing your soul, a message will come through the truth delivery service, you will feel a sense of unease, and when you open and read the message you will wish desperately to turn back the pages to where the story began to sour, and make a critical correction there.
The problem is, that book has already been printed, published, and distributed to all the critics you tote along inside you. You are anxious for their comments. You read the reviews with the eyes of your intestines, your face turns an angry red, and that fierce Garuda Bird of shame commences to gnaw on your exposed parts, the parts ripped open by the razor you are relentlessly wielding with your own inner hand.
All the grievous damage ever done to us, we have done unto ourselves. We are the victim of our own reticence to forgive ourselves, and so the struggle goes on endlessly. It is futile. It is a kind of war which none of us can win. We go to church, we go to therapy, we do our prostrations and perform our pujas, but the knot around our hearts only tightens, until at last some unknown soldier raises a white flag from the trenches.
There is a moment of silence at that point which love takes advantage of to resuscitate itself — it has been patient for so long after all. Then everyone begins to regard their weapons as if they were poisonous snakes. They drop them to the ground and rush forth singing the love anthems, and they do not look back, why bother.
In the midst of the joyful noise, you notice that you have become very quiet. Is it possible, you wonder, to just let it all go? You remember how it was before they told you about sin, and you recall now how innocent it felt to just wake and breathe and run with the wind.
You remember how each day seemed like a parade of miracles, you remember standing in the rain, and though they called you to come in, you just put up your hands and let that beauty run down your face, and you remember how you laughed.
You really want to laugh like that again, and even before the thought can materialize, you realize that you are laughing now, and that the war at last is truly over. That door closed imperceptibly behind you as you came at last to the edge of the enormous room. Then you saw that there were no walls there, no containment at all, and you were free. You were free.
You remember your name now — not the one that they gave you here, but the one you arrived with, the one by which the light knows you, because it was the name which the light itself bestowed when you first emerged from the furnace of incomprehensible love-union.
You appeared in the midst of this emptiness as the fruit and joy of emptiness, and this spacious emptiness came alive with the boundless light you shone from every pore of your being. That very light is shining now. What is there to blame or condemn, to pardon or forgive?
That living light has always been the supernal radiance around you, the luminous arms which like a lover embrace you, the celestial music that pours down upon you, the pure spirit water which perpetually baptizes you, the good earth that lifts you up to the sky, and the welcoming sky itself which like a mother bends to kiss you. In the gracious shine of such infinite love, how can we turn away?