Friday, August 31, 2012

The unknown ways that love must express itself through each of us...

Enter here and lose everything. What sort of invitation is this? Who would be foolish enough to consciously choose this? The loss of my ideas; my concepts; my spiritual superstitions; my accomplishments; all strategies that allow me to stay separate and guarded; the ability to defend myself and construct a cocoon around my heart; fantasies about what will complete me; conditioned spiritual stories about awakening and enlightenment; my habitual quest for new and fabulous “high” states of consciousness; endless activities to exit embodied immediate experience to go to a more and better place; eternal confusion around closing to the crushing immediacy of intimacy; my absolute conviction that I exist continuously through time-- permanent, solid, findable; my unwavering conviction that the project of “me” is something other than the play of maya.

Only a very foolish lover would entertain such groundless uncertainty, to fall heart-first into the excruciating unknown deep dark waters of the beloved’s womb. In this confusing bewildering whirlpool of grace, everything that arises is self-liberated into the purifying fires of the movement of love. Endless invitations are offered in a timeless luminous space for the lover to die and be re-born, to allow the architect of love to re-engineer each and every cell, each and every strand of DNA, each and every synapse in the brain, to be wired for what is next, to somehow prepare for the forever unknown ways that love must express itself through each of us.

As these infinite cycles of death and rebirth play out, as love forever and into eternity takes shape as this human body… a call from beyond makes its away over the thundering silence… the tea pot is boiling… the matcha is ready. Behold this cup of tea, the birds singing, the summer wildflowers, the blooming rose bush, the strange smells coming from the neighbors house, the sometimes annoying clanging of the wind chimes, the baby across the street who is screaming to be held, the tingling in the fingers from a life of so much typing, the remembrance of the day’s to-do list, the reminder of all of the responsibilities of this life. All of these appearances, like echoes, like mirages, like rainbows… translucent, luminous, real reminders of the only response to this life which makes any sense: that of deep gratitude.