posted January 21, 2009 01:30 AM
The Chandala
A Book of Maxims, Visions, Dreams, and Curiosities"A short saying often contains much wisdom." ~ Sophocles
"A short prayer pierces the heavens." ~ The Cloud of Unknowing
On Action
The mind thrives on uncertainty, but the will starves.
I once tried to contemplate a glass of water for ten minutes straight,
but I couldnt get it into my mouth.
Half-empty? Half-full? Drink the damn thing already!
He elects, whom God has elected;
He chooses, who is chosen;
Free Will is Divine Intervention.
Some speak boldly for action, and say, "nothing comes from inaction". But action comes from inaction, and who can draw that thin grey line where inaction ends and action begins? Surely, what changes we've seen in a sudden instant were prepared for ages underground.
Where there’s a way, there’s a will
On Artistic Creation
Art is Love.
Inventions are higher discoveries. --
God is our most ingenious invention,
and our highest discovery.
Jesus was an incomparable artist. His masterpiece is the “Living God” of Christianity.
No other work has had so profound an influence on the lives of men, and the life of mankind.
The evolution of the human species will depend on the willingness of individuals to give free expression to their own imaginations and creative wills. Art, and not intellect, is nature's greatest gift to us, and there is nothing in reality for which artistic expression is not a sufficient resolution.
Fantasy is the best reality has to offer.
[or]
Fantasy is the better part of reality.
A masterpiece is a gem that is polished when it is viewed,
and shines brighter upon each reviewing.
Every work of art is an affirmation, however dark and brooding.
It may be that the greatest affirmation is provided by the darkest work,
for, here, the artist affirms creation even in the midst of the blackest pitch,
shrinking neither from the darkness, nor the work of expressing it;
while despair never lifts the brush, and hope scarcely feels its weight.
Great works of art create the illusion, not of reality, but of fiction.
It is only when we believe we are a safe distance from the battle that we begin to discard our shields.
On Character
Good men find their greatest pleasure in being virtuous,
while the rest of us find great pleasure a virtue.
A jack of all virtues is a master of none.
Neither great fortune nor great misfortune best reveals the character of a man;
only the condition of one or the other extreme is required.
A wise man acts because he has something to do, not because he has to do something.
Good men are not free to do evil and evil men are not free to do good;
a warm heart cannot fail to give warmth, nor a cold heart chills.
Ignorance does not create error; error reveals ignorance.
It is the same with a man and his actions;
he does not create them, but they reveal him.
From those who cannot give their approval to Life, she accepts their detraction; and thus consoles them for the deprivation of all that she lacks (in their eyes). This is the freedom God, and Life, grants to a decadent: The freedom to curse one's captor. Let us not begrudge, as God does not begrudge, the decadent his right to curse the heavens and bemoan his lot. If we would be distinguished by our willingness to affirm Life, let us affirm Life's decadents, as well.
On The Christian Gospel
Christ said: "I did not come for the righteous, but to bring sinners to repentance;
For the well need not a physician, but them that are sick." Still, people await the second coming, thinking that the righteous shall be delivered. But the righteous (if indeed they are such) already have their reward. It is the "sinners" who must be delivered.
Flesh is not merely the corruption of Spirit,
it is also the Divine Manifestation;
the Fall is also the Incarnation.
Herein lies distilled the mystery and essence
of the Christian cosmo-conception.
One problem with the Gospel,
as it is handed down in its present form,
is that Jesus always knew he was the Christ.
If the Spirit is to speak the Word clearly through the Letter,
and the analogy become truly universal in scope,
we must imagine that this knowledge was revealed to Jesus
at some point durring his maturation.
Perhaps it was the Baptist who saw divinity in him first,
and awakened it with water, the emotional element.
Isn't this how it happens, to all of us, eventually?
The miracle is not that God became a man (that happens every day),
but, that a man became God; something far more rare.
To turn the other cheek is just to look the other way,
but trading blow for blow is the worst kind of hypocrisy.
On Conflict
Even a defeat is a victory when the cause is just.
Conceding a point in the heat of an argument
is like pulling a u-turn at 90 miles an hour;
it can't be done.
Three myths: a perfect circle, a balanced scale, and a fair fight.
But it takes subtle eyes to discern subtle imbalances.
If one did not have an advantage over the other,
their every conflict would end in stalemate.
Nothing provokes some people more than your refusal to provoke them.
Devils always appear large and forbidding,
so the warlike man is emboldened to do battle,
for the glory he may gain in vanquishing such opponents.
But victory is not won by wrestling with devils.
It is only lost in this way. --
Rather, victorious is the gentle nurse,
who cradles the infant Christ,
and does not neglect what is small,
to seek glory in what is great.
Holding fast to the infant,
the devils cannot touch her;
it is only in setting love aside,
and trusting to one's own strength,
that the enemy is invited to attack.
"There is a season to give and a season to receive":
Trying to cry on each other's shoulders, we only end up butting heads.
On Context and Infinity
Truth is context; the "whole truth" has never been spoken; by anyone; ever.
There is no context. It is impossible to say everything. In attempting to say anything at all, our words must sit like islands in the stream, surrounded on all sides by a restless uncertainty; or, like a bit of cloth, frayed around the edges. No matter how clearly you articulate a truth, at the frontier of your speech there is ambiguity, and the likelihood that your wisdom will be subject to presumptions and displaced into inappropriate contexts is almost absolute. Only intuition circumferences the unspoken.
Only wisdom knows her own.
There is no consistency, in individuals, nations, ages, - you name it. In every man, we may discover instincts and ideas as diverse as those exhibited by the most dissimilar cultures on the planet. Read a book and you will not find the man; only a proximal point of convergence, where all that is not the man comes to blows; this conflict is the man. The measure of identity appearing to the casual observor is but a momentary "blip" in the eye of the observor; the fin that, for an instant, breaks the surface; but never the fish. Were she to look with deeper insight, this "identity" would crumble, - or, rather, concresce into manifold characteristics without definition; each giving way to another, and unable to maintain an independent integrity. Everything that achieves (appears to achieve) any degree of particularity divests itself (appears to divest itself) from the totality of Being, in order to exhibit a momentary singularity; a sanctuary, of sorts. And everything must end in a compost of contradicting impulses, drives, and currents, since, being a particularity (appearing to be a particularity), it is, in itself, something of a ruse. Yet, that which we so-called "spiritually minded" folk are fond of calling "ultimate truth" is no more (or less) real. All things, including that which we call The One Thing, have reality only to the extent that they are subjectively witnessed and experienced; to think that this reality may be objectively considered would be a mistake. The act of reflection is not divested from the thing reflected upon, but, rather, is the continued reverberation of it. So, while we may appear to reflect, it is we who are reflected. That which arises before the mind is like a hammer striking a bell or a stone; the mind is the bell, or stone, reverberating according to the nature of the strike; the reverberations in the mind are our impressions of the thing. Even to reflect upon them is to experience them, for the impressions made on the senses are no more "real", or legitimate, than the impressions awakened in the mind, which is only a more sublte extension of bodily sense. But a mind which has been anchored in the depths of things will not mistake the reverberation, or the thing, for something definite and concrete. Any judgements formed will be nuanced, tentative, and conditional in the extreme. Likewise, sense impressions will acquire an indefiniteness, or a kind of fleeting quality, even as they are received. The mind operates as a witness, without forming absolute judgments, and, even when formulating conceptions, does not take itself too seriously. There is a lightness; even the most reverent emotions and meaningful insights are accompanied by a flexible and irreverent wit. And the action of thinking becomes, as it were, a kind of dancing, with the object being, not to distinguish true from false, but, to dance well. She, the illumined, orchestrates her thoughts as a dance is choreographed, and the question in matters of choreography is never, "Is it true or false?", but, "Is it well or poorly done?"; "Does it evoke, at once, both soul and spirit?"; "Is it beautiful?"; "Is it sublime?" This, then, becomes, in a sense, the new criterion of truth. "Is it sublime?" Moreover, "Does it flow?"; "Can it dance?"
Who said, "There are no contradictions,"? He only spoke half-truths.
Consistency is self-contradiction.
All truths are contextual, all wisdom contingent; metaphors lack corners.
Over-dependence on rules leaves you at the mercy of exceptions,
but an open mind is as clever as a sharp one.
On Courage
He has courage to attack who lacks courage to defend.
The courage to jump is also the fear of not jumping.
If suicide is cowardly, how much more so is the fear of death?
On Detachment
When the excavation of one area of life becomes exhausting, we can always find relief by turning to another area of life. When we have spent years, even decades, exhausting ourselves upon one area of life,we may spend years, even decades, finding relief in detachment from that area, - but, if life were only long enough, we would exhaust that relief as well, and turn back to the very things we thought we'd learned detachment from. Detachment is not the sign of maturity we like to suppose it is.
Who is moved by angels is moved by devils.
He blushes before beauty who cannot look upon homeliness.
Ask yourself if you are dreaming, and, at once, you begin to awaken.
We are frequently engaged in many places at once, and present nowhere.
Have you been blinded in the darkest depths?
You will be blinded in the light, as well.
Look around you now.
On The Ego
Water carried over cliffs by water;
fire consumed in flames; the ego,
swallowed up by its own big mouth!
Our broken songs are half-composed, and we ourselves, half-composed;
we sing ourselves, and sing ourselves completely.
Great truths are dropped from great heights, so they are sure to crush a few egos.
On Equality
This is the only equality I know: that I am more elevated than some, in some respects, and lower in other respects; that when I look down, I experience a giddy sense of superiority, and when I look up, a sobering humility; but, that when I keep my focus on the path directly before me, I cannot but feel myself the equal of every man.
On Faith
Faith goes nowhere without her shadow of doubt.
A godless man doubts the existence of god as a loveless man doubts the existence of love.
On Fortune
The greatest wealth is luck.
Not all who are wise convey wisdom, not all who convey wisdom are wise;
One is spiritual, but another has power to convey the spirit;
the gifts of grace are without discrimination.
Most people can't get their hands on a little happiness or good fortune
without taking credit for it, and blaming others for lacking it.
If a man has not known great fortune, he cannot know great misfortune; and the reverse is equally true. So it is that, in the days of misfortune, we are made mindful of the good fortune of our former days, and in the midst of present fortune, we discover our unfortuneate past.
Go with the flow... but dont forget the ebb.
On The Future
The clearer our purpose, the quicker our progress.
There are two ways humanity may yet preserve itself:
The first is by becoming more compassionate.
The second is by becoming more cruel.
And I'm not sure about the first.
On Genius
A genius is a man who has his madness,
but whose madness does not have him.
A witty man may become a genius,
if he applies his talent to matters of profundity.
The quality of our thoughts depends on what we think about,
rather than on how well we think;
as the value of a light is reflected by the objects it illuminates;
and not by its own brilliance.
The first requirement for greatness is the audacity to be great.
One must begin upon the heights to ascend beyond the clouds.
All men are so inherently flawed, that we must look to their most valuable qualities, if we are to form a sympathetic estimation of their worth. What Shakespeare lacked, a fool could have provided.
But Shakespeare is still Shakespeare, and a fool is still a fool.
Bright souls outshine the merely good; despite a cloak of vices,
a fugitive light breaks through between the shallow stitching.
And if such a soul were to be purified, and made good,
it would shine naked in the sun, and would outshine the sun.
Witness Jesus; the purified genius.
On God and Man
Reform that man who seeks to reform the gods rather than himself.
Without man, God is a bell that never rings, or a fruit tree that never bears fruit.
Man's light is God's mercy.
On Going Within
The admonition to "Go within" can also be a subtle ploy of the ego.
We do not care to admit that we, as individuals, are incomplete,
and that wholeness may have more to do with learning cooperation,
than with "finding ourselves", or contenting ourselves with ourselves.
Close-mindedness is always being mistaken for self-reliance.
On Guilt
Guilt is a grace, to whom it is given.
But a higher grace is to have a humble, supple will,
that yeilds easily to the promptings of conscience,
and has no cause, nor use, for guilt.
Great guilt is the mark of a great conscience in a proud man.
The perverse introversion of a truly stubborn will:
conscience must crystalize and become guilt;
only then it is clear to him.
Reform that man who seeks to reform the gods rather than himself.
On Health and Healing
He falls ill who is ill.
A good diagnosis is the best prescription.
A spoonful of sugar helps the poison go down, too.
Sometimes the best thing to do is listen.
People often know what is best for themselves,
and in those instances we ought to let nature take her course.
The most reluctant patients are not always wrongly so;
they may refuse our prescriptions for better reasons than we know.
Many times it is our insistence on treating them which is bullheaded.
It may even be that God marks out certain people, at certain times,
and will not permit anyone else to “play doctor” before Himself;
though we may be called to assist at crucial moments,
as hands, to place the Surgeon's tools closer,
or daub the patient's burning brow.
On Hope
Cynicism is the denial of hope by the fear of disappointment.
A small hope is a cold comfort, warmed between praying hands;
or a grain of sand within an oyster, slowly nursed into a pearl.
On Humility and Pride
The Sun is a brilliant light,
but light must be carried underground,
and only a candle can serve.
Humility works hard to satisfy its pride.
Pride covets virtue, vanity covets her appearance.
Self-contempt is the highest form of pride.
Only the proud may be virtuous in humility;
the humble should cultivate a healthy pride.
Whether confident or insecure, self-rapport is the same in every man;
the self to which he remains attached is always the self that regards him,
and never the self which is regarded.
On Ideals and Idealism
There is divinity in idealism; to have an ideal is not to be godless, --
and it is a kind of blessedness to remain faithful to one's ideal.
The beautiful is a stain on the sublime.
The statue of Francis always touches his heart. And I've never once heard him fart.
On Ignorance and Education
Ignorance is the price of education.
There is a teaching for every time and place,
but only one teaching is timeless and all-pervading;
the former may be taught, the latter learned.
Nothing teaches, and nothing prejudices, like experience.
On Innocence and Experience
There are those who see shipwrecked men and say,
"The sea is off-limits to sensible men!"
Perhaps it is so. And I would rather be senseless.
The beauty of an infant is so pure that, in contrast, all the adults we meet seem to have acquired a dull, unattractive, and greasy patina. What makes the child glow, as if surrounded by a halo of gauzy light, is merely the absence of this film, which we might never notice, if not for the stark contrast provided by the child. Innocence is not a positive element of existence, in the sense that, it is not a thing in itself, but, rather, the absence of some other thing; it is an emptiness; a negative element; it appears only in the space that gives definition to forms. Our true nature is innocence, and it is regarded only in the absence of impurities. This is why saints glow again like children.
On Judgment and Understanding
You can't judge a book by the book.
Judgment is the antithesis of understanding.
It is superfluous to judge a man if he is guilty in his own eyes, and ridiculous if he is not.
Crime may make a man a criminal, but only conscience can make him guilty.
If a man is unfit to judge himself, who is fit to judge him?
I will surely take responsibility for myself, but who will take responsibility for me?
Nothing teaches, and nothing prejudices, like experience.
We walk clumsily in another man's shoes, when we've yet to remove our own.
In order to know him, it is not enough to walk a mile or two in a man's shoes;
one does not come to understand the nature of drunkenness after a single drink.
We tend to lose sympathy for a man to the extent that his suffering,
having quite overwhelmed him, begins to affect ourselves.
We generally reproach a man for the immodesty of his suffering
when it is ourselves who cannot bear so much as the suggestion of it.
The moral sense is strong in some, weak in others.
Yet, even in this, the strong still persecute the weak.
Hatred of evil is the craftiest and least well-known of vices,
so easily is it mistaken for love of good.
Who is more unreasonable:
The man who possesses no respect for human life?
Or the man who expects it of him?
Adversity creates vice before vice creates adversity.
When we need a reason to forgive, a reason can always be found.
The trick is not needing one.
The difference between a reason and an excuse is that we provide reasons,
while other people make excuses.
Every man praises those virtues which he seems to possess in himself,
and finds a way to criticize those which he clearly does not possess;
while those who lack the power to reason,
and must find a way to the truth through intuition,
will tell you that reason is a dead end,
and only intuition lights the highest paths, --
those lacking intuitive power,
but well-armed with reason,
will reason their way to the heights,
and remark only upon the pitfalls of intuition.
Both seem to find fault in the method,
and rarely acknowledge it in themselves.
On Love
Love is certain;
for to be certain is to rest,
and there is no rest but in love.
Only love is at rest.
Only love is certain.
Many fall, but only the shallow ever land in love;
the deepest people spend lifetimes falling.
Remember Love, or you will forget it.
“Each night, I decompose upon your breast,
and sink into the solace of your body-soil.
With the dawn, I tear myself from the warm grave of your embrace,
and each day sojourn as a man beneath the perennial sun,
longing to be corpse again, interred in the heart of my beloved.”
On Madness
If a man is not slightly crazy, he is completely mad.
On Peace of Mind
Patience isn’t waiting for something.
Equanimity, in itself, is not a virtue;
more often, it is the result of weak passions than strong wills.
Only strong passions can give birth to strong wills.
The key to happiness? Demand nothing of yourself and settle for anything.
Some people take the hint, and some people take the hit.
A strong man can make his peace with life,
for it fears him, and will seek an alliance;
but a weak man must grab life by the horns,
and wrestle it to the ground;
life won't hesitate to trample a weak man.
Before he can make his peace,
he must do battle and become strong.
On Reason and Revelation
Reason is to revelation what the mind is to the soul.
Reason mediates revelation: mind mediates soul.
People abandon their thoughts,
reject their ideas, and dismiss their intuitions,
then complain that they have none.
Every head is a headstone; every body, a grave for restless spirits.
I am a ferment of other minds.
Great thoughts are doorways onto otherworldly vistas.
The view that is not represented is never assented to.
On Religion
Nine times out of ten:
Religion is a man who smiles and praises God's goodness,
while burning His martyrs at the stake.
Most people choose their beliefs according to what makes them feel good.
This is why so many intelligent people are miserable;
they are unable to deceive themselves about their condition,
and must choose their beliefs according to what makes sense.
Speaking strictly for myself, religions are a lot like dingies -- boundary markers -- in the ocean of mystical revelation. And I must "cross" this immeasurable, unchartable, forbidding ocean, for, with, and toward my God; a god individually corresponding to me; to the unique dimensions and specifications of my soul, and my soul's blue-print for this life. But, if any religion were my shore, how could I ever hope to arrive at my homeland; my fatherland; my God? Therefore, let them be, for me, friendly lights and signs by whose polite and unassuming aid I may hope to reorient my helm, and make my way upon the swept, uncertain sea.
Religions are nice places to visit, but I wouldnt want to live in them
I’ve not chosen a religion, but I’ve tasted the many cups.
To drunkards who protest that I drink not, but merely swish and spit,
I say, “Perhaps I am a connoisseur.”
They wear crosses like anchors around their necks,
and fall on their knees like ships run aground;
their hands, joined in prayer, fork the sand:
"Lord, deliver us from oceans, though we be ships!"
The domes of polished churches gleam;
Turned-down goblets with broken, steepled stems.
These priests have drunk too much!!
Or is it not enough?
Man lights candles when the power goes out,
and prays to God when the candles burns down.
Praying to God when times are good is like lighting candles in a house full of electricity;
its extremely illuminating, and everyone should try it at least once.
On Silence and Speech
The truth of love, spoken clearly, is like a great flood, purging the land of all that is merely superficial and unrooted in the natural order. Nothing false can stand in its wake. The mouths of the foolish and the wicked are stopped, and the tides of ignorance and animosity ebb like phantoms in the morning light. Only the truth of love has this magnificent cleansing power.
But it must be spoken. It must never be silent.
In silence there is sweetness.
Words fall, and often rise, into this;
and fall back through, to rise again.
Silence is wise; speaks no lies.
The words of a wise man never reach the ears of a fool.
If fools could be silent, wisdom could speak.
Silence is the wisdom of the foolish and the folly of the wise.
To speak or not to speak; that is the question.
All things are needful. Words find the ears for them.
To most people,
the choice between flapping their gums
and holding their peace,
resembles the choice of a small bird
who must remain aloft, or, else,
perched on the nose of a crocodile.
They fear silence as they fear death;
because it might (God forbid!)
provide an occassion for self-reflection.
Speaking well is the art of treating with equal respect the claims of honesty and tact.
An aphorism is a finale, in a nutshell.
The Master “speaks in tongues”; which is to say that he speaks in All tongues.
Because he speaks in All tongues, his words may approach the perfection of Silence.
All things speak of God, but the Voice of God is Silence.
Truth is not in the teachings but in-between them.
The bell of the world is struck by the birth of the man, or is silent.
On The Subtle
The finest line does not divide.
The subtlest minds fall through the cracks;
stupidity keeps us sane.
That which is mortal in us is undisturbed by loud noises and harsh words.
Being of the same nature as these,
it will only grow louder and more harsh itself,
in order to accomodate them.
But that which is divine is truly delicate.
The slightest noise,
the merest hint of discord,
is enough to dispel it.
A mound of stones is not upset by a strong wind,
but a mound of powder is lost in the weakest breeze.
Though we may not disturb what is coarse by behaving in our usual way,
we must take greater care not to disturb what is fine.
So it is that we must be gentle with one another,
not for the sake of what is mortal,
but for the sake of what is divine.
On Suffering
Years in meditation may not bring the self-clarity that comes with a broken heart.
A man who has never known great or prolonged suffering has no real claim upon his happiness. Who is to say it will not abandon him at the first scent of real trouble? We are tried by suffering; baptized or burnt. And it is only having passed through its flames that we come to know what we are made of.
The greatest tragedy of human existence is not that things change,
but, that they change before we’ve grown tired of them,
and refuse to change long after we have.
On Truth and Lies
What is good cannot be true. Only what is great can be true. Truth belongs to the heights. She is free and without purpose, because she is great, and not good; purposefulness is good, but pure being is great. A good teacher teaches with purpose, so that others may learn. But a great teacher teaches for no reason at all, and only because she is a true teacher. What is true has no purpose; this is what it means to truly "be".
All men tell the truth;
liars tell the truth by lying;
their lie is their truth,
and, if they did not lie,
it would be untruth,
or else, they would not be liars.
I have nothing against liars,
other than the fact that they lie.
Liars are always the last to hear the truths they speak.
On The Underworld
Superficial talk is delusory; all reality is excavated.
The wisdom of the earth is lofty in the underworld.
The nut may not fall far from the tree, but the roots spread into eternity.
The horizon recedes on the crest of an eternal dusk.
The deepest questions are cultivated in the underworld, and the loftiest answers are harvested in the spheres; therefore, the one who’s job it is to tend and deliver them must necessarily be estranged from worldly matters to the extent that he is successful in his work. That this principle is so universally misunderstood may help to explain society’s hostility toward the visionary type. He is stigmatized for being different, while his differentness is precisely that which qualifies him to take a detached perspective on the affairs of men, of nations, and of ages. Expected to abide by a conventional standard, he is constantly inhibited from pursuing his true calling, and the only thing capable of (eventually) earning him a living in the world. Nor is it generally understood that the seemingly immaterial contributions he makes are of a subtle enough substance to reach (and nourish) the very roots of mankind. In the final analysis, he is the exception which exists in order to prove their rule; the more oppressed for all that he upholds.
On The Will of God
Some resist the will of God, and some accept it, - but all obey.
The Sun does not rise; the Earth rotates:
Nothing is created; everything is revealed.
Only the inevitable is ever truly possible.
When the student is ready the world becomes the teacher.
"All is One."
There is nothing else worth knowing and understanding.
The rest are details; for the tourists.
I sought the One Thing, but I found All Things.
Mother God is unconditionally loving,
Father God makes impossible demands;
where they meet, a Messiah is born.
The character of a man's mind is not dependent on the composition of his bodily organs, nor is the health of his body governed by the operations of his mind; but there is one being on whom all things depend. The mind is a reflection of the body, but the body is equally a reflection of the mind. The movement of one does not cause the other to move, though their movements correspond. At bottom, there is only one movement; one mind; one body; and one cause. The wise have called it God, or refused to call it by name.
Lord, did you make the worms for the birds, or the birds for the worms?
On The World
The world is a longing for God.
The world is a dynamic grey-area of conflict and creativity, bordering on order and chaos, respectively, and mediating between these two. Man is the soul of the world, and the soul is a longing for freedom. The soul grows and arises determinedly, like a flower, delicate and beautiful, out of the conflict (and brewing conflict) of the world; and into the freedom of creative, orderly self-expression. Mystic and philosopher, Simone Weil, spoke of the world as a "metaxu", comparing it to a wall which divides two prisoners (the soul and God), yet, which they may make use of in order to communicate with each other, albeit in a relatively primitive way, by a series of signals, or taps, as it were, upon the wall. I'd like to borrow this great word, if I may, to suggest a slightly different image, of the crust temporarily overlaying a pond in wintertime. As the world is in a ferment between order and chaos, so, the ice is frozen and rigid, while undergoing the dynamic chemical reactions of melting. With the coming of spring, like a grace, this conflict intensifies, or "heats up", as the rays of God's love and wisdom enter the ice, and cause it to split into water, on the one hand, and steam, on the other; the water molecules dropping, like bodies, back into the ubiquitous pond, while the molecules of steam ascend, like liberated spirits, up into the sky. Understood in this way, the metaxu (and the world) is not clearly distinct from the life and soul of man, nor is it something which divides man from God. Instead, the soul exists bound, as the freedom of water molecules is bound, within the icy corporeality of the world, in the body of a man. And by the light, heat, and grace of God, we are freed to ascend in a more airy and etheric form, out of the prison of the metaxu. Did I say prison? But the metaxu is also that ultimate ground of being out of which man is taken; man being the self-evident jewel and fruit of the world; just as man's soul is the lustre and sweetness in the heart of man. The marriage between God and the soul takes place in the light of time; which is also the light of wisdom; or truth, as it is capable of being percieved by man. This consecration is the accomplishment and fruition of the nature of metaxu, as well as its own negation, and the sacrificial dissolving of its own substance into something distinct and, yet, akin to itself. Ultimately, there is no definite boundary between what we are, what the world is, and what God is, -- but we may approach an intuitive understanding of, and relationship to, these truths by the convenience of analogy.
Visions
Rice scattered on water;
stars in the night sky.
Birds shining behind branches;
the moon singing behind clouds.
The moon perched on a cloud.
Birds dart thru branches,
like shafts of light,
shook loose by the wind.
Autumn’s trees are fireworks exploding;
Scattering leaves of colorful sparks.
A thousand unlocked doors between us,
but I still search for a key.
Like a vagrant,
I fall asleep on the steps of my prayer,
and never ascend to the door of your love.
Like a thief,
I have made the night my day,
become a stranger to the seasons,
and an enemy of the good.
I was a fledgling crossing the ocean.
You were a branch floating by.
I was a burning book.
You were the breeze that fanned the flames,
and carried just one page to safety.
I was an outlaw on the run.
You drove me to the edge of town,
stuffed a few bucks in my pocket,
and told me to scram.
You held me and your eyes beamed forgiveness.
Then you showed me to my seat at the kiddie table.
I nursed myself on roots and bitters,
in a heap, in a ditch, on the side of the road.
You splashed me by accident with mud
on your way to your daughter's recital.
We never spoke of it.
I was a chalk outline of a corpse in the street.
You were a child's hop-scotch board drawn beside me.
Rain mingled our disparate bodies and we were silt.
Lindaland
UBBFriend: Email This Page to Someone! 
posted November 14, 2008 04:28 PM
posted November 14, 2008 06:09 PM
posted November 14, 2008 06:09 PM
posted November 14, 2008 08:25 PM
posted November 24, 2008 11:03 PM
you!
posted January 12, 2009 01:30 PM
posted January 14, 2009 01:11 PM
posted January 16, 2009 01:17 PM