Satisfaction Guaranteed

comments 26
Poetry

This poem
comes with a
Satisfaction Guarantee.

That’s right.
Here it is, in fact:
Your
Everlasting
Satisfaction
Is Guaranteed.

In case
you’re wondering already–
(you haven’t even
read the poem yet
for Pete’s sake!)–
what type of compensation
you receive should you find
by some law-bending
fluke of nature
that you’re a twinge
dissatisfied
at the end of this,
I’ll tell you that, too.
Anticipating
such a question,
the Beloved has
written the Answer
upon an infinitude of hearts,
some whom are walking around
in broad daylight right now,
none of whom are subject
to the fine print your reluctance
would have them be.
And the questioning,
doubting, cynical,
faithless, shrunken,
know-it-all
mindset
that you invested
into the poem,
well that will be gladly returned.

As a brief aside,
why would you
ever doubt this Guarantee?

Maybe
you think
it’s inconceivable
that someone
like me
could have
that kind of
Authority?

Maybe
you think
the manner
in which this
Guarantee has been given
raises deep questions
about its
Authenticity?

Maybe
you think
I’m no more
than a detestable
provocateur,
and the guarantee
my latest ploy
to capture the limelight?

Maybe
you’ve already forgiven me
for my brazen absurdity,
since you came to the conclusion
long, long ago
that we’re all just
a bunch of
well-intentioned
but weak-minded,
short-lived,
desperate,
wounded,
slightly incapacitated
and very dysfunctional beings
with about as much
likelihood to deliver
on a promise such as this
as a field of pot-smoking
jack-o-lanterns.

Well.
Let’s just give this a try.

One day at dawn
I was walking
through the meadow
with an empty bucket to fetch water
when a charm of gold finches
arose to encircle me in the air
like a delirious cloud of singers.
In the glory of that moment,
I forgot more things than I could possibly tell you.
I think they may have hypnotized me,
and laid me down in the cool grass
and chirped up and down my whole length
and perched on my chest and face and legs
and offered songs unto their sky on my behalf for many hours
and whispered unspeakable delights into my ear.

One thing I do remember.
They said all beings are like
tall blades of grass
standing in the same field,
their roots and stalks interwoven,
their lives given of the same sun.
Each blade is given all the others
to shelter it from the wind,
to share in the ticklish wonder of starlight,
to give vastness a locus of shimmering points,
to remind it of the glory of its existence–
the nature of which, they told me,
is a Presence
perpetually overflowing
from one blade to the next
like a wind rippling through a field,
a Presence, they said,
whose very nature
is Guaranteed.

I really liked that One.
I didn’t even care
that one of them
pecked a button
right off my shirt,
or that another
stole my shoelaces
and flew away with them
to build a nest.

The Gift of Silence

comments 10
Poetry

We can’t be happy, Hafiz says,
until we discover
we’re not who we think we are.
Then he leans near, whispers…
So… how are
we going to pull
that off?

I think he’s going somewhere
with this.
I can’t help myself:
I’m grinning like
the operator
of a prison search light
who’s secretly pulling for the inmates
to escape and run riot,
waiting for my Friend’s next words
to bust through
the cell block wall
and stride through
the front gates unaccosted,
armed with authenticity
and an armload of flags,
and pull a jailbreak handstand
in the parking lot
before giving me
a cloth-popping semaphore
crash course in breaking free.

I’m just grinning
and grinning and
grinning.

Waiting and
grinning myself
down to the damn bone.

He was speaking rhetorically,
I gather.
I’m getting cramps
all up and down
my tear ducts, and
Hafiz, it turns out,
is waiting placidly like
he has an appointment
to have tea
in three days with
the King of Spain
and no interim plans.

Well, I announce–
clearing my throat
of all hesitation–
we know I’m
not about to
lay an egg…

Not sure where
that came from…
but my grin is back
and strutting about
like a peacock
that just awoke to
find itself in a media blitz
at the center of the Artic Circle,
and I sense vaguely
that I’ve become
a spontaneous test
of the hypothesis
that the best defense
is still a good offense.
Hafiz looks at me curiously,
which is all the encouragement
I need to dive ahead
into the silence
like a giddy thief into
his first bank vault.
Well, I say,
sitting up straight
to deliver the goods properly,
we know I’m
not about to
lay an egg…
or paint a Picasso…
or forgive that
lying
no good
double-crossing
cheap ass
heathen
landlord
who’s squeezing
me dry and
won’t even fix the heat.

He raises an eyebrow.

(Uh oh.)
That doesn’t count, I stammer.
You set me up.

Now he’s grinning,
smiling like a proud parent,
and my squiggly, warbled,
overbearing sketch
of a sky blue fire truck
with flames shooting out
in all directions
is about to be hung
on the refrigerator door,
and suddenly,
my frozen grin
has limbered up
and begun to fade.

I tell you something
about my friend, Hafiz…
He’s got a silence
on him
that’ll have you
layin’ eggs
like a Rhode Island Red
in no time flat–
a Silence
that’ll pull
on the thread
of every half-baked
hypothesis and conclusion
you ever had
and compel you
to put them on display
like a stunning collection
of beautiful
feathers.

Wow-
just look at those things…

Beam Splitting Wholeness

comments 24
Science

Our perspective of the world underwent an abrupt overhaul with the development and experimental validation of quantum mechanics, and like whorls in a cloud chamber flung from the site of a detonated photon, a legion of metaphysics spun-off from the diverse array of interpretations and suppositions the field inevitably engendered.  I remember, vaguely, when I read The Dancing Wu Li Masters while taking high school physics.  It was a sufficiently beautiful experience to propel me into a nearby university that fall as a declared physics major.  After a successful year I decided to shift into engineering, thereby cutting my minimum required stay in academia by half, content in the fact that I could reflect upon the essential nature of the universe and of my self with a good book and a meditation cushion, with or without a PhD.

Today I feel vindicated in this regard.

I have also come to cringe when I see the admittedly mind-boggling quirks of physics used as explanations for the bedrock of identity and being, the existence of consciousness, or the freedom of will.  I think that is a slippery slope, and that you cannot derive the glorious and timeless character of Rumi from a science that permits, within very narrow ranges, uncertainty, or that has demonstrated a “spooky” connectivity at a distance through entanglement.  I think it is quite the other way around, and that we find within science the traces and patterns of the very essence of who we are.  Connectivity, for instance, is primary.  It is a given.  It is real.  And the phenomenon of quantum entanglement is but one of countless avenues through which the reality of connection reveals itself to us.  Something vast and invisible is at play– not a he or she, not a God with a beard, not us alone and certainly not an other, not a thinking intelligence as we understand it, but a Love that gives of itself like a sunset, an apple, a human being, a blue bird, and two photons whose inter-being knows no distance.

It is in the spirit of the latter, as Creation being literally festooned with relics of its own innermost nature, that I love to poke around in the findings of science and consider the multiply-layered potential meanings of what is on display.  As an example, a few years ago I had the honor and pleasure of interviewing physicist Mendel Sachs in his home– yes, I pretty much asked him to invite me, a stranger, into his home for a coffee table discussion of his work– and one of the great takeaways was his pointing out that Einstein chased after the theory of relativity out of an insistence on the notion that truth is true, and that if something happens in the universe, there must be a way to translate its appearance from any one reference frame into any another so that the two observers can ultimately agree on what occurred.

This is beautiful!

The theory of relativity is like a universal translation device, enabling two viewers of the same event with radically different relationships to it– e.g. diverse physical points in space, rates of motion towards or away from the event, etc.– to realize they agree completely, even though at face value they each witnessed something seemingly very different.  The speed of light is constant because it is a mathematical necessity of the translation device, and time and space– which make sense only in their durations– are seen as a language for expressing what occurred, rather than reality itself.  When the language is properly understood, the meaning in all reference frames is the same.

Recently I was thinking about quantum mechanics, and asking myself, what might this crazy branch of physical-theoretical phenomena be showing us?

The double-slit experiments, of which there are many forms, some of which are very intricate and could only be performed in the last decade due to advances in experimental technology, have as their beginning the behavior displayed when monochromatic light passes through two slits located close together.  The light emerging from each slit diffracts to form an arc, like the ripples in a pond spreading out from a tossed stone.  The two sets of ripples overlap– imagine two stones thrown at the same time– and when the light hits the far wall there are places where it is very bright, and places where it is very dim, since the light waves add together where they coincide and cancel each other out where one is a crest and the other a trough.

This is classical physics, not quantum physics.  Now imagine the intensity of the light source is turned way down, and the wall is equipped with photodetectors.  The photodetectors “click” when a single particle of light, a photon, hits them.  What is observed is that the bands of light and dark we saw on the wall are the result of a shower of countless individual particles that, one-by-one, strike the detector in various places.  The individual particles, en masse, construct perfectly the structure we had attributed to waves.  This has been observed countless times as, click by click, as slow as you like, the interference pattern of the wave is reconstructed.

How is that possible?  How is it that a single particle, which surely must travel through one slit or the other in a straight line, could wind up five or ten degrees off course?  It appears that an individual particle somehow interferes with itself as if it were the original wave of light striking both slits, and forming the two sets of ripples and the subsequent interference pattern, and yet each photon ends up striking the photodetector at a single, discrete location.  Each photon yields but a dot.  It is the sum total of which over time yields an interference pattern.

This is difficult enough to comprehend, but the experiment becomes even more of an affront to common sense when a detector is placed at each slit to tag photons as they pass by.  When these “marker detectors” are in place, the photons are indeed found passing through either one slit or the other, not both, as one might expect of a trustworthy little particle, but now the interference pattern on the final detector disappears!  In its place, the photons all strike the photodetector in one of two relatively fixed locations, each the product of their respective slit, as if the photons are now flying through one slit or the other in a straight line for their target.  The wavelike interference pattern has vanished.

To circle back to an earlier point regarding the spin-off metaphysics of quantum mechanics, at this point some would say the experiment demonstrates the way in which the notions of subject and observer break down in quantum mechanics, and even go so far as to suggest that human consciousness, through observation-participation, causes wave functions to collapse and thus interacts directly with reality.  I think human consciousness is far more directly enmeshed with reality than by going around all day collapsing wave functions, but I think scientifically the experiment simply doesn’t support such a conclusion.  A person standing in the room will see an interference pattern on the wall, regardless of what they are thinking, until the “marker” detectors are added to the experiment.  Without the additional markers, the experimental behavior of the light will not change, no matter how much intentional wave collapsing your average person attempts to project upon the scene.  I’m not suggesting such a miracle is impossible, but it’s not obvious from the mathematics of the theory…  So it strikes me that the key to collapsing the wavelike behavior at each slit is the rearrangement of the experiment in such a way that different information is extracted from it.  When we force the experiment to tell us which slit the photon took, it will.  Otherwise, freed of such a constraint, it will dance for us.

What does this say about us and the nature of this universe?

I think for starters it reveals the way in which the individual and the whole are indelibly interwoven, and mutually supporting.  The interference pattern observed in the double slit experiment is a wavelike behavior that, in quantum physics, arises as an emergent phenomena, constructed of the paths of countless individuals.  When an individual particle allows itself to follow its own path, simultaneously responding to and embodying a relationship with the underlying field– by “interfering” with the underlying virtual wave– it follows a path that is at distinct, yet nonetheless integral to and revealing of the whole.  Something unexpected arises encompassing all particles.  There is an individual for every path, and from the relationship of every path to every other path, wholeness.  Likewise, the path of each individual is informed by an interference with, or relationship to, each and every other path through the field– or said differently, through relationship to the whole itself.  Each path is born of trust in being an individual, a trust which arises out of relationship to the whole.

For me the experiment also suggests that our insistence on measuring and judging the nature of our journey every step of the way collapses both individual and collective possibility, and impedes the natural unfolding of what we, as individuals and as a unified field, are desiring to express.  When we insist on judging progress, on maintaining “normalcy”, and on controlling the trajectories of our lives by knowing where they are aimed, we close off our relationship to the unknown, lose touch with the other trajectories around us, and the whole pattern dies to uniformity and mediocrity.  The end result is two disconnected patches of light, duality, an either-or existence.  When our lives are informed by mystery and intuition, however, and we allow what is latent within us to emerge organically, we contribute to allowing a new and beautiful wholeness to emerge.

I think this is what Jesus meant in A Course of Love when he suggested that being ourselves, and making the unknown known through our very lives, would author a new world.  A pattern will emerge on the wall, with each individual in his or her perfect place, each a unique and distinct arising of the entire field.  This isn’t the product of effort…  There are no measurements to be made…  We simply respond to the relationship that binds us to every other, and to the whole.  Together, we are a wave.  The wave is all of us, together.  Each one of us is a unique expression of the whole, and yet the whole is simultaneously all of us.

Scrubbing Smiles

comments 15
Poetry

The instruction to
just be myself
resulted
in a pretty
meandering
to-and-fro
up-over-and-down
there and back again
maybe, but maybe not,
should I educate
myself better
or get a few more
life skills first
type of thing
until one
day when I
was brushing
my teeth
I came to a scrunchy halt,
arm cocked like a frozen piston,
and I looked into the silvered plate
hung on the wall, the one
framed by garishly bright lamps
poised to illuminate
the Self with unflinching malice,
and I looked back at my Self,
and into me,
through the
paste bubbles,
dribbles and chalky rivulets,
and out the other side,
and I saw that
more than anything
I could ever be or do
or have
in this world,
I desired to be
part of something
Beautiful, True and
Everlasting,
something involving
Everyone.
I had to resist
a sudden need to
hunch over as
my upper body
spasmed in the attempt
to laugh and cry
all at the same time,
oblivious of the fact
that my mouth was full
of minty suds and a grooming implement
I could choke on
if I wasn’t careful.

It’s like being a river, I thought,
staring into those eyes,
like being one true tear
with Everything in it
that finds its way to the sea,
like being a leopard on the horizon
at dusk, framed by the rising moon.

I would have kept going– (maybe)–
but luckily this other part of me
spoke up that day,
that crazy one
you love to death
but try and hold in reserve,
who frankly
you need to speak up
sometimes, like
when you’re consumed
with trying to just be Love
in the face of a gale force wind
bearing barbecue grills,
gazebo roofs, garden sheds
and small cars.
He says:
Like a human being, maybe,
you trippy idiot?

Yeah, I thought,
my forearm still cocked
and locked
in position to buff a molar
and suddenly wanting
to scrub the smile
right off that smart alec’s face.
Like that.

Once you get
over that hurdle
of wanting to spontaneously
become a moonlit leopard
or a jujitsu master
that doesn’t need to eat food,
it gets a little
more straightforward.
Like, for example,
next day I was minding
my own business
reading poems
by the river
when Hafiz shows up,
says gently,
you could try
writing one, too,
you know…

Call Center

comments 15
Poetry

One night
when Hafiz was working the phones,
a call came in.
The man began
by announcing
that he had a few questions,
as if he were preparing
his counter party
for a barrage of heavy artillery.
The way he said it
made it sound
like he had a few answers, too.
Look, he said,
you can’t really know
if there is anything
beyond this life or not,
but consider:
if there isn’t a God,
and I die, then fine.
I’ll rot.
But if there is a God,
and I die, and I’m not a believer,
then things could perhaps go badly
for me…  So,
I have concluded
the only reasonable thing
is to assume He may exist,
and to be kind to others
and whatnot.

Silence.

Hello?
(Well he did ask one question.)

Very gently,
Hafiz set the receiver
down in the cradle.
Inside, he was
already trembling.

His supervisor
raised an eyebrow
from the far side of the
call center.

Prank call, Hafiz croaked.

His supervisor
waved him off
for the rest of the night
and slid into his place
at the phones.

Hafiz felt himself
splitting in half,
as if he’d been fed
a rotten piece of fruit,
stabbed through the heart
with a sharp blade,
told he didn’t exist,
and abandoned on the roadside
by his own family.
He got up
and ran for the door
and ran down the hall
and ran up the stairs
(ten flights of them)
and ran across the roof
and  dove deep into the sky
like a shot arrow
plunging straight
into the marrow of time
until he was absorbed
into a million histories.
On the horizon
a line of billowing clouds emerged
that wept gently
all through the night–
a pitter patter vigil of sweet tears.

At dawn, an orchard by the sea.
Orange and lemon trees
ripe with fruit.
Dancing butterflies.
Calling parakeets.
Gardens of jasmine
and a family of cormorants
perched along a rocky cove,
fishing in the shadows.

Like this,
a holy Place
has been prepared
for each of us,
but only the purest type of question
will foster access.
We cannot gain admittance
tickling the gates
of an entire kingdom
with a clever feather,
or expect our fine print
to influence a court
that knows no language.

Careful is far too diluted–
a desire cut too thin with words
and heady conjectures
to be the purest type of question.
Better to collect our
polite confusions
and distill them into something
potent and unbearable,
to boil off the excess
until just one sip leaves
us retching on the floor,
our insides hot and splintered,
their true nature revealed,
and to chug the whole
bottle of this medicine
so that when we drag ourselves
across the floor to place the call,
we can’t even speak,
but have become a question.

There is a Friend alive inside
of that type of question
the way heat is inside of light.
There is an orchard in there, too,
a breeze perfumed by oranges,
and a banquet table
stretching to the horizon,
with places set for Everyone.

Night Breezes

comments 17
Poetry

Night breezes
tickle the chimes
we hung,
then rise
through the leaves above,
rinsing away the day’s hours,
then rise
to graze upon
the earthen rays streaming
from the crowns of trees,
then rise
to gather in counsel inside
a vast cocoon of starlight.

Underground,
the bees are sleeping,
their dreams sparking
along the synapses of flower roots.
Tomorrow they will harvest the nectar,
discovering the return of all that was given.
Life is neither plain nor mysterious.
Even a bee is a doorway,
a hidden passage.
All beings are such a circle,
a hoop that never repeats–
a night breeze blowing,
and a visible, holy need.
Sustenance is never-ending,
a line of waves continuously reaching the shore,
a field of stars by which to navigate.

Our fundamental work is
neither hidden nor obvious:
the joining of night and day,
the linking of all and none.
True desire shows the way.

Together, we incubate this world.
We incubate in this world.
Down along the shore, at night,
we meet where the breeze blows in off the sea
and winged dreams fill the sky.
The hinged doors on our hearts open
and the day’s memories are released
from cages of interpretation
to plunge into darkness
and carry their messages home.
Hollow,
endless,
becoming, we
await our dreams’ arrival,
as one by one they alight
to coo in our chest
and build nests
for the coming day.

At noon then, a sandwich.
Yes, please.  I would like more coffee.
A smile has come back to me.
A ray of sunlight strikes the table with Meaning.
I have an Idea that hatches
inside of my hollowness
then rises
in a single line up towards the rafters
like the smoke of a single
cone of incense,
then rises
along the slanted peak,
exploring the deeply cracked topography
of old wooden beams,
then rises
to huddle briefly around a single, forgotten nail,
then rises
up into the sky
where it is caught by the wind,
and taken.

Who Are We…?

comments 15
Christ / Course Ideas

Who are we?

It is perhaps the fundamental question of both science and religion, and certainly of what we call “spirituality”, a catch-all word with which I resonate in steadily decreasing degrees as time passes.  Spirituality is all too often a repository for that which fails to fit nicely into one of the generally accepted practices for knowledge cultivation in our dominant cultures.  Definitions aside, for most of us I think the essential purpose of our own unique inquiries, however we choose to categorize them– inquiries which are for each of us both holy and deeply personal– boils down to achieving freedom from suffering or at least an interpretation of suffering in which deep meaning in our lives is obtained and sustained despite the difficulties

When I was first trying to make sense of things, I had but one governing premise to steer me: there must be some way of seeing in which all of this makes sense, or more accurately, is meaningful.  From there I began doing what a person of my particular birth station and proclivities would do at a state-funded institution of higher learning: I went to the library.  Raised a Catholic, I knew step one was the expansion of my database of world views.  Other people had their own experiences, and they wrote them down.  I could see what they had to say.  I attended a talk on Hinduism.  I read about the Mayans and the Native Americans in particular, and indigenous people in general.  I read books on Buddhism and meditated.  Buddhist reading kind of stuck early on because it was so different, because it pointed to something tantalizing that I couldn’t quite bring into focus, and because I felt a certain permission to practice without wondering if I was doing it right.  That seemed to lie at the heart of the practice: to sit, and be present.  I supplemented the sitting with confounding myself with its written teachings.  I was patient, and methodical, and desperate, and strove to understand as deeply as possible.

A corollary to my one guiding principle– that there must be a way of seeing in which life is a meaningful endeavor– arose fairly quickly, and that was the assertion that people everywhere were being true to their own experiences, viewpoints and teachings.  Different people from different parts of the world weren’t out to dupe all the other parts of the world.  People are people– by and large truthful, sincere, passionate and loving.  I developed this idea further into the premise that people who radiated authentic, loving Presence were not inventing their experiences.  The result was that I was left with all sorts of conundrums.  How could this be true, and that?  How could this experience over here be interpreted in light of what is being taught over there?  On the one hand, it was pretty easy to weed out the big stuff, like assertions that one religion was right and its followers destined for glory, while everyone else was doomed to eternal damnation for their folly, but the core question of who I was had yet to be fully answered.

An obvious difficulty of making sense of Eastern and Western thought is making sense of who is present in those cultures.  In the West, the self is a given, and in my Christian upbringing, the “I” of me continued after death, on into eternity, in either heaven or hell.  In my admittedly limited readings of Buddhism, the self and the world around it were described as somehow illusory in nature, and the sought after nirvana was not a place at all it seemed, but a way of perceiving, an emptiness that is full, something at a right angle to my entire previous experience.  This degree of discord was exciting on the one hand, and debilitating on the other.  Moments of grace came from the inner tussle, as when I thought about Jesus’ famous line, “Father forgive them, they know now what they do,” in light of the notion that misperception was a fundamental cause of suffering, and realized there was no discord.  If I could see things properly, I thought, I would be able to forgive even my killers.  The idea that Jesus was the embodiment of a powerfully actualized way of seeing and knowing, a way that had perhaps fallen through the cracks of religious oversight over the years, began to take root within me.  But gaps remained.

For someone raised a Christian, the notion of eternal life is a difficult concept to ditch, and doing so comes perilously close within the structure of that particular worldview to suggesting that we die and that’s it.  There’s scant middle ground to stand upon.  I found that even the idea that my awareness would not end, but would rather be “absorbed” by an infinite pool of Godhead– one of those efforts at reconciling the particle and the wave– failed to satisfy.  If a little company gets bought out by a big one, it’s not necessarily cause for celebration.  Something is lost, some independence, some freedom.  Likewise, having gotten some mileage out of contemplating quietly this concept of living emptiness that is the true essence of an illusory reality, I found myself loath to pitch that from the equation as well.  It was bringing peace, and deeper understanding.  It was alive and transformative within me.

The notion that there is no eternal soul was difficult to ditch for other reasons as well, such as reading about the stories of Near Death Experiences, or reflecting upon the beliefs of indigenous traditions in which links to ancestors, often very specific ancestors who are known by name and who periodically speak through synchronicities that are delightfully in-character, are sustained to the point of being nearly tangible to an outsider.  I have had the opportunity to participate in ceremony and felt a power that could not be denied.  In keeping with my first and only principle, it was impossible to conclude these links to beings alive in the spirit world were simply delusion, just because another world view suggested otherwise.

Things eventually came together for me with discovery of A Course in Miracles, and later A Course of Love, because there I found both a way to unify and maintain the truths I felt lived within these various sets of views, or practices.  Here was a deeper dive into the way of seeing and knowing that Jesus had sought to share with the world, a nudge to see beyond illusions of form and ego, a way strikingly similar in many respects to what I had learned trying to make sense of Buddhism and other world views.  Also, the words came from Jesus, and this suggested a continuity to his presence within the heart of humanity, and an accessibility that felt like the unbroken chain of connection I had witnessed in Native American pathways.  There was something eternal– an immutable presence, a lineage, a cup over-flowing continuance.  I found a way of understanding in which eternity and emptiness might coincide, their seemingly disparate dimensions linked not by word tricks or clever definitions, but through a deep understanding of perception and knowledge.

If I have learned anything, it is that reality lives between the lines.  I now think that what is called a self cannot be intellectually understood.  While the fundamental issue we face is that of knowing our true nature, our true identity, as without this knowing misperception remains, this is not the type of knowing the mind alone can either achieve or carry.  A fundamental obstacle to authentic knowing that is presented in A Course in Miracles and in A Course of Love is the long-held, fundamental misperception of separateness.  This is a starting point for the experience of self that colors falsely nearly every experience, and I saw in hindsight that it was the core misperception that had maintained the wedge between my efforts to stitch together truth wherever I found it.  Separateness is a stance that occupies the mind, and so it is a stance the mind cannot wrestle free of on its own, without invoking the heart, for the mind alone cannot conceive of unity.  Unity is not a concept, but a living reality.

In unity, we don’t have a purely individual identity, but a shared one.  Our identity is Oneness.  This is who we are, who I am, who you are.  Oneness.  We are each Oneness, walking around.  We are each other, the sea, the sky, the caterpillars, the birds.  There is naught but this, arising.  We are Christ, the Buddha, and the White Buffalo Calf Maiden, or perhaps, to try using words a few different ways, we each live in them, as they live in us, and yet we are uniquely who we are.  I carry all beings in my heart, as you do, for we all carry and continuously give birth to one another, and there is no separation between us, and yet each of us are unique differentiations– unique expressions– of all of us, of all that is.

In A Course of Love, Jesus says, “We exist in the embrace of Love like the layers of light that form a rainbow, indivisible and curved inward upon one another.”  Later, he says, “Love is the source of your being.  You flow from Love, an outpouring without end.  You are thus eternal.  What flows from Love is changeless and boundless.”  There is an unchanging, timeless and eternal core that lies at our root, a solid ground on which we can depend, and that is Love.  It is ever-fertile and never-ending.  Simultaneously, nothing can flow from Love that is separate from any other outpouring of Love, and so all are indissolubly bound to all.

But what of the individuality we experience?  Is the individual wholly illusory?  Jesus says, “Expressions of Love are as innumerable as the stars in the universe, as bountiful as beauty, as many-faceted as the gems of the earth.  I say again that sameness is not a sentence to mediocrity or uniformity.  You are a unique expression of the selfsame Love that exists in all creation.  Thus, your expression of love is as unique as your Self.  It is in the cooperation between unique expressions of Love that creation continues and miracles become natural occurrences.”  While the ego, the notion of being a kingdom unto oneself is illusory, the Self held in unity is not, but the Self held in unity has its deepest roots in Oneness.

Here is where it ultimately comes together for me.  With the desire for unity in our hearts and minds, with unity itself as our vantage point, we realize that Love has a purpose for each and every being, and that it is an eternal purpose.  We are joined in unity outside of time and place.  We join in unity at the heart of it All.  Love doesn’t become a being as a way of commenting on the weather– what she says is never subject to circumstance, never obsoleted by time’s passing.  All Meaning is eternally valid.  Mark Twain, for instance, in unity, is a living reality, alive within us, alive within Love, never-ending, as we live in him.  He is not gone, or carried in memory alone.  He did not exist “then”, in a different way than he does “now”.  We are not joined with him in the past, or he to us in his future.  We are joined in unity.  We are what is.

The fear of being absorbed and subsumed is, I think, a false one, a misperception of who we are right now.  It is the way a kingdom unto itself thinks about losing a separateness that never was.  As we heal our perceptions, and realize we each live in and through one another, that our wholeness exists only in the holy relationship of all to all, and that one could not be without the other, the fear of being lost or misplaced, or melted down for reprocessing, vanishes.  We realize how deeply meaningful is our connection to other beings, that we are sustained in and by them, that they are the very nature of our existence, as we are theirs.  Relationship is the nature of all nourishment.  I think to understand this fully, is to discover the type of gift each being, each expression of Love truly is.  It is unspeakably rich, knock you over rich, bring you to a dead stop in the Gold Medal 100 meter dash rich.  Each are given to each, that each might live.  We are given unto one another.  The fear of being lost is nullified by the realization that all beings are giving you life, and you them.  Which being whose holy presence is the sustainer of your Life would you judge unnecessary?

For whom would Love issue a recall?

The Self is a shared phenomenon giving rise to countless unique and continuously embraced and enfolded expressions.  Nothing is lost.  Only added unto, for Creation is still occurring, right now, and we are the reason, the way, and the Life.

* * * * *

PS – This post was inspired by dialogue with the insightful Miss M over at SeeingM…  Thank you, M, for the discussion and shares…!

Volunteering

comments 18
Poetry

None of us
really knows
what kind of stunt
Creation
is going to pull next.

The thing to do
is avoid being
reactionary.
If you like to fly,
for instance,
put on your
leather aviator’s helmet,
your trusted goggles,
and a long, flowing white scarf.
Then sneak into the
Situation Room
and thrust up your hand
to volunteer.

Don’t worry,
They’ll know for what.

Sky Healing

comments 17
Christ / Poetry

There’s a poverty I sometimes settle into,
a clawing for connection.
It’s a painful question
that picks me out of the world’s line-up
of chiefs and princetains,
captains and raconteurs,
the divas and the daring,
and squares me up for examination.
Him.
He’s hiding something for sure–
a limp of some sort,
a wound that hasn’t healed,
one eye that betrays him with its flickering tic,
a slow, creeping failing he strives to ignore.
Protectiveness
bottles up my weakness,
and me with it,
slows the inner metabolism,
solidifies my boundaries.
Time passes.
As I remain here,
the shell creeps inward from the edge–
it’s petrification.
A congealing.
This poem is a cutting-open
a Friend helped me write.
It’s about a boundary like the sky,
a nebulous edge that splits open
thoughts from the Beyond
and turns them into colour–
a realm for unfurled sails,
gliding birds, and the crackling
photochemistry of Possibility.
This poverty is low,
down between the stones,
tucked away in shadow
where discontentment collects
and settles like a hidden secret,
while far overhead
the sky continues whirling, unceasing.
In a quiet moment, at dusk,
the sky bends down to find me,
for it collects along
the rim of the earth as well,
transpiring into the soil,
coalescing into a dew that
slides along the undersides of rock
and along cracks in my shell, whispering
of the brilliance high above.
Christ is the kind of sky
that will fall softly upon you
in the night, and offer water.
Then, at dawn, the sky you drank
will evaporate and carry you
up into the heavens
for presentation to the sun.
In just this way,
all poverty is sunken into,
and absolved…

A great Friend is like this:
One who can be both
your water and your sky.
If this poem finds you
at nightfall, please…
have a drink.

Kindness

comments 14
Poetry

There’s a kindness
that isn’t about
doing the right thing,
or being good.
It’s not about
holding the door open
for a stranger
to be polite,
or even nice.

There’s a kindness
that’s about
upping the ante and
challenging the status quo,
about asking the kind of question
that provokes a crisp rebuke
from your inner skeptic,
that elicits
a little wait and see
because here comes
another sweet dose of
I told you so–
the kind of question
that incenses that
part of you that likes
giving your emotions orders
and lining them up
in crisp rows
on the parade grounds
for inspection.
Attennnn-SHUN!
Maybe Private
Fruit Loops here
can enlighten us all
on what’s the matter
with his FACE.
Wipe that smile
off your grille, Private,
and give me two trips
around the park
with a rucksack full
of poetry volumes
you joyful sonuvabitch!
There’s a kindness
that arises outside
of all reasons and tactics
that’s like telling your
inner drill sergeant
you’ve made the choice
all on your own,
after due consideration,
to refrain from PT for the day
and lay on your back
in a field of daisies,
staring at the clouds,
rejoicing.

It’s a kindness
that’s about
opening a channel,
about holding open
that other door,
the Emergency Exit
at the center of your being,
to sound the alarm
and awaken the Calvary,
to become a portal
between worlds
so that something
holy and terrible
like a herd of talking buffalo
with lightning bolts
painted on their flanks
will come crashing through
to graze on your past,
clog up the streets,
fertilize the parade grounds
and generally wander about
in a telling Display
of what it’s really like
back home,
beyond the barracks.

There’s a kindness
that’s about saying
as gently as possible
to that little guy
inside of you
with the bullhorn:
I don’t believe in this
boot camp living.
So there.

Take that.