Ruminating with a mystic poet
I believe that I am in a field of possibility witnessing illusion all around me. I am not the witness. I am not the illusion. I am the possibility.
Jesus said that all were welcome at his table. That same table is set before you. It welcomes you to the wedding feast. Your bowl at the table is empty. It is filled with nothingness. Dip your spoon into the bowl. Sup on what you will. You are the soup maker. You pull from nothingness all possibility.
Do you remember a younger self—sly and mischievous, strong and talented—for whom you search. Who is this street urchin you seek that you spent your good years vainly pursuing? It is your inner nature. The one who sets you free of the world to return you to I AM. This youngster is twia.
Leave the “highways and hedges.” Start now for the wedding feast. Twia knows the way. There is no waiting. You cannot wait for now. Now is the moment. Tend to the moment. Let the morrow tend to itself. To wait for tomorrow is to wait for Godot.
We no longer get the privilege of miracles that once gave certainty to what lies beyond our miserable lives. How can we know for certain when there is no voice that calls to us from the heavens, or a bright light to blind us, or even a bush along our path that burns without being consumed. Where are these ancient miracles that say for certain, “I am your God. You are not alone.”?
Certainty abounds in ignorance. To be certain that you know only adds to your not knowing. You do not know. You do not know this from that. What you know is your own self-serving perceptions, the ones that say; this world is real, and I feel its pleasure and pain, happiness and sorrow. Each moment in ignorance leaves a decision to make. Do I die today, or not? That is the choice we make moment by moment. Each moment is a decision to enter the room within, or not. Not an in-your-face kind of moment, but a subtle, little-lasting moment like a heartbeat on a long walk across town.
Words torture reality. You cannot know what you say with words. “Those who say, do not know” is a well-worn adage. I do not know, so I say a lot, over and over; hoping, I guess, where there is no hope. Do not hope. Do not judge. I linger with my companions, hope and judgment, too often and too long. Eventually they leave, then I take a long walk on the way of the path, which brings me back to reality. There I rest in the field of possibility without words—and know.