Ruminating with a mystic poet
I struggle with words hoping to know. Then the words stop, and peace comes. It is there, deep within, that the mind goes blank. The heart fills. Joy prevails.
Leave the words to the world. You are wordless. The mystery draws you closer in silence. Praise and adoration are empty gestures. They separate this from that. The sacred and profane grow on the same vine with shared roots—the roots of separation. Do you choose one over the other? Does one get your praise and the other your acid tongue? To praise or condemn is to declare yourself worthy of judging, which is the way of the world. The ways of the world are judgment and hope.
Words point the way. They separate. They restore. To praise, or condemn? They are all words of judgment and separation. The mystery cannot be given words. The mind cannot know the unknown. To know is to listen. To take in. To witness. Close your mind to the world. Be its witness. Take in what the mystery says in silence. Sip at the rainfall. You cannot drink it all at once. Stand in the rain until you are soaking wet.
My thoughts are not my own. My words go unread. Yet, I say because I do not know. To know is to be silent. I cannot be silent. The words come. I listen. I write. To write is to remember. In writing, I remember twia. Words bring twia into my existence in form. Twia is unknown—empty, without existence. Words give twia form in “me.” The presence of twia in “me” draws out the joy that is my true nature. Through words, I express joy.