The Tree of Life

What materialists are wont to call abstraction is, in fact, the realm of subtler sense; not a delusional contradiction of, nor a mystical alternative to, the dense material and sensory world, but, rather, a natural refinement of it; the world itself, progressed to the inevitable apex and terminus of laws consitent with it. If the seed or origin of a thing is natural, the fruit or end of it cannot be unnatural. Supernatural is not unnatural, but more natural.

A metaphysician is only a higher type of sensualist. An idealist is only an extreme kind of pragmatist. Truth disdains neither the world, nor the world within the world, but is at home in both places, and sees them as one.

Novalis wrote, "Philosophy is homesickness, the desire to be everywhere at home." A wise man, then, is one who is equally at ease on land or sea; in the concrete or the so-called abstract. Each leads him to the other; he drops anchor so that he may again set sail, and vice-versa. To such a one, how shall the land ever be entirely divided from the sea, the husk from the seed, or the world from God? The world only inspires him with God, and God only inspires him with the world.

Shall we say of the creature's shell, "It is natural," and of the creature, "It is divine,"? If one out grows the other, it is only by growing out of the other; in sympathy with the other, and under the protection of the other.

The flower bursts the bud with all the force of the bud, and of the stalk that unites them both. The lotus does not rise above the mud without being firmly rooted in the mud. And one might imagine Saint George unable to stand (unable, in fact, to be Saint George) unless it is upon the neck of a subdued serpent.

The same strength which was in the opponent has transferred itself to the hero. It has not been obliterated, lost, or spilt beside the blood. That same strength, or spirit, has been transformed in accordance with divine law; not in contradiction to natural law, but in continuation, refinement, fulfillment, and fruition of it.

The Devil, much like a restless child, ought to be patiently endured, consoled, and, at times, gently instructed. Satan is not some external entity or force, acting upon and exciting the passions toward unproductive ends, but, rather, a title given to describe, under a single head, all the immature and unskilled expressions of the passions. Like God, Satan is also within us, and, indeed, Christ himself is nothing if not the Devil transformed; disciplined and reformed by the Grace of God which is in us.

This secret is hinted at in the life of the chief apostle Paul, who was also the reformed murderer Saul, and who loved God with the same fervor with which he formerly persecuted Him. The passions are not dissipated by grace, but, along with the man who contains them, they are converted. "And he said unto me, 'My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.' Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me."

To some, the crucifixion is a poor symbol, a sado-masochistic spectacle, which draws attention "downward", into the flesh and blood and mud of the world, and not "upward", into the spirit and love and light of heaven. But if we are to ever encounter divinity 'on earth, as it is in heaven', we will have to begin on earth, and endeavor to locate the spirit, love, and light of heaven precisely in the flesh, blood, and mud of the world. Approached and contemplated in the proper spirit, -- that is, with an open heart and mind, -- this is what the image of the crucifixion is rather perfectly designed to do. The more terrible the afflictions, the more noble the sacrifice they reveal.

Here, there is no dodging of accounts. The abject things of this world are not placed out of sight and out of mind, but, instead, are spiritualized. Light is not carried 'upwards', out of darkness, but, fearlessly, brought to illuminate the very depths. Good is not superimposed on the world, or spirit on the flesh, but shows itself emerging directly therefrom.

In a very meaningful sense, Christ was not so much given to the world by God as he was given, or given back, to God by the world. Likewise, the cross was not so much planted on Golgotha as it was grown there, and we cannot know how deeply it has pierced the earth, or how intimately its root is coiled around the 'heartseed' of the world.

Nor was Christ grafted onto the stalk by mortal hands, but he hung there as fruit, ripe from the Tree of Life, that the hands of men might pluck him down. In this vision, the cross is not brown and dead, but green and bursting with new life. Christ, annointed by the blood of his sacrifice, gleams as red and bright as any berry on the branch, to catch the roving eyes of every wanderer in search of spiritual nourishment and desirous to taste the supernatural sweetness of love.

Consecration

From the Ocean of His Eternal Love, channelled down -- broken, scattered, and spent -- over countless mountains of obstinate sense, the grail of a heart receives, as a Soul's humble portion, the merest runnel of God's Holy Light...

From the Abyss of Her Insatiable Thirst, out of the Chaos of Her Infinite Complexity, a Soul bends gently forth, to sip the clear, bright water of Her Lover's Love...

How sweet, these few drops, seeping through the parched knuckles of an open heart; lost down the long gullet of a gaping Soul; or merely sounded on the dry slab of a stoney breast, -- enough to coat that altar, for a moment, in a deeper shade!

How soft, the mist of holy affection, that wafts like a secret, dewy incense through the inner chambers of a body-temple; that possesses a Soul mysteriously in the lap of the world, and engenders more abundant life in Her!

Who, for an instant, could doubt The Divinity of Love,
even now, when Christ might have made believers of us all?

Reminders of Relaxation

The only problem is learning to relax.



The only true wealth is relaxation.



Relaxation brings you back to your center.



Relaxation brings you back to yourself.



Relaxation leads to the spring of higher intuition.



Relaxation leads to the pool of divine inspiration.



Relaxation leads to the fountain of noble speech and action.



Relaxation happens only when you stop running.



Relaxation is secure, compassionate, and aware.



Relaxation feels the most delicate sensual pleasure.



Relaxation floats on waves of happiness and love.

Drunk On Mother's Milk

RELAX
Shake off your humanity,
but only for a moment; --
so you can embrace it.

RELAX
We're all on fire.
Sit back and watch us burn.
Who can escape the inferno of Being?
Where would they go to?

Turn it off, go to bed, --
wake up; it's in your head.

My God is playing "hide & seek",
"chutes & ladders", with the vortex of self.

He is plucking the petals off of flowers,
musing, "He loves me, he loves me not."

And you,
who will not play, --
what is your part?

What role do you play?

Oh, my serious soul...
The world draws you into its depths,
and you Spring forth with greater mirth.

It's beauty enchants and draws you in;
it is not a thing to be contemplated.

Confess that you love the world!
There's another heartsick sucker
born every MOMENT.

No, the world cannot hold you,
but how can you shake off its drama?
And why would you? This shit is EPIC.
You love it. You know you love it.

'Physician, heal thyself.'

RELAX
And be in love with the world.

You cannot escape it,
and, even if you could,
you would throw yourself
back into its embrace.

My God, my Self,
how long have we been locked
in this turbulent romance?

How does one slake
the love that cannot be quenched?

My God, my World,
You break my heart,
yet, somehow, then
the love bursts forth.

"OH, THE HUMANITY!!"
Ha ha! What a lover! What a life!
(Now, go see another side.)

I am drunk on Mother's Milk,
but don't patronize me, Goddess.

Your peace cannot resolve
my infinite complexity; --
poets will be poets.

You cannot hold me to Your breast,
but, must release me to the world; --
to die, and die, and be reborn.

OH, MY SOUL!!

You can outlast everyone,
you stubborn son of a bitch,
but you can't outlast
The Everlasting.

Divine Scraps

Even the enlightened are on their way.

The saints always talk about the saints, and say,
"They are no different from us, really."

You cannot inject peace into a situation,
but you can take conflict out of it.

If you do not relax, the mirror will not reflect your face.

The puzzle you have in hand can only be solved by putting it down.

If you can throw it away, it's a keeper.

You might be a Christian... if you shrug off the religion, and it attaches itself to you nonetheless.

I keep giving up, and finding Him!

I tried to pray,
but I broke into song...
Was this the reason for,
and the answer to,
my prayer,
all along?

Who loves Love, loves All.

It is the nature of error to be certain. The very instant you stop pretending to be wise, you have become a holy fool.

Put off your priestly garb, cast aside your unholy airs, and walk in the dust with Our Lord.

A false saint is too proud to receive applause,
while a true saint is too humble to accept rebuke.

"Take up your cross?" How do we take it up? Paradoxically, by putting it down.

There is no adventure but surrender.

What are they fighting over? A clod of dirt. A dry turd. Never anything.

Going into battle is only fleeing in defeat. Put down your sword, and take up your cup; drink with the victors, for whom the contest is done. There is no crusade, no great quest. The Holy Grail is whatever cup lies closest to your hand.

All who live by the sword live by the sword. Does it matter how they die?

We can add, even to God. --
The words of the wise are dead,
if we do not AMENd them.

Bring heaven down to earth -- why search the skies, when God is in the faces of the ones we love?

It doesn't matter, but don't give up.

A man inspired by God is God.

Every line is all I have.
Every exhalation deflates me,
and I must draw on Thee.

Silence speaks endless volumes.

The Invisible Church

The Quakers, along with those admirable groups and individuals who inspired them, including the Savior himself, are humble members, neither proud nor ashamed, of what has sometimes been called 'The Invisible Church'.

According to this definition, these religious men and women are considered as one body, because they hold one simple belief in common, or, rather (regardless of what other beliefs they may or may not share), because they hold this one simple idea to be essential ro absolute.

Namely, the belief that within the individual there exists a sacred and mysterious something -- a hidden, invisible, immaterial, ineffable something; -- which, for the sake of convenience, has been called by various names, including "The Light", "The Divine Light" or "The Divine Inner Light".

Also, that this Light, with proper intention and application, may be known, and that, when one has known this light, one naturally will permit it, as a source of intuitive wisdom, to guide and empower one's life in harmony with forces which transcend one's conscious ability and understanding.

Moreover, that the substance (a word which is used here only with the utmost provisionality) of this invisible something may be best described as pure Light and Love, while the individual who allies him or herself to it partakes, in a most blessed way, of the nature of what is contemplated; even going so far, in exemplary instances, as to mysteriously become the object of contemplation; to become Love, Light, God, The Invisible, -- or, at any rate, an incarnation of what all of these can only point to. One might argue, -- and, certainly, many great theological minds have argued, -- that an incarnation, or manifestation, of something formless is, in fact, more real than the abstraction which inspired it, and, in a sense, gave form to it. My own feeling is that there is nothing the least bit unreal about an abstraction, and that, when we have eyes to see it, the world of our imagination will appear at least as real to us as the one we call actual now.

What is most paradoxical about those mystics who stand for the Divine Inner Light is that, while they have been called invisible, on account of their lack of affiliation (or their tentative affiliation) with religious organizations, their holiness has often been more visible than most. For what they experienced in their hearts, they poured out in words and deeds, and their message was not hamstrung (as it often is) by superstitious dogmas, choreographed rituals, or outmoded creeds, but was clearly and spontaneously manifested in the patience and compassion they extended even to those who persecuted them.

Unusual singleness of purpose and belief: among spiritual movements claiming to unify mankind, this is precisely what distinguishes the Invisible Church, of which Rumi (ostensibly a Sufi) was one of the most articulate members, and definitely one of the most thorough in articulating the essence of it's doctrine. Rumi understood, foremost, that the doctrine he expressed was a doctrine in name only; that nothing he ever wrote, no matter how purely inspired, could adequately capture the truth; but only imperfectly reflect it, out of love.

The poet sings of God, not because he believes his song is a true utterance of God, but it is only the nature of the poet to sing, and it is only the nature of the best poets to sing mystical songs of God.

The poet sings from a heart overful and desperate to dispense itself, as a convert gives all his earnings to charity. This is why poetry is a vocation for the poor, and, not withstanding certain fortuneate exceptions, poets live in poverty.

Absolute poverty, which is the cheif prerequisite for true humility, is a condition where not beven the identity may be claimed as a possession. It would be a misnomer to speak of "one's identity", or of having a self, or being a consistent entity, whose boundaries are not more fluid and dynamic than they are solid and static. A poet, to the extent that he is even a poet at all, will be up to neck in the subconscious, with only his mouth free, to utter prophecies.

Where the lunatic is mindless, the poet is merely disembodied. A madman is only one who has gone under, over his head, and cannot come up for air. He sinks, where the poet floats, and the mystic swims. But the poet must speak, even as he must breathe; exhaling visions so he may inhale further inspiration; which, for any artist, is life. The sage who tries to hold his tongue chokes on it, just as surely as the saint who tries to save his own life dies by his own hand.

He dies because he ceases to be what he is.

In the case of the poet, he is almost nothing, a cypher, a mist upon which great and strange visions are projected. He is similar to an actor, but the roles he plays he lives, and does not recieve or accept under contract. Anyway, he is no good for work; disabled for anything but inspiration; dependent upon the muses and, like Blanche Dubois, upon the kindness of strangers. And, who, to him, is not a stranger? For he is an alien in his own skin.

Whatsmore, he is fatally wounded by life. Not one day, as others are, when they least expect it. But everyday. He walks with Death on one side, taking jabs at him. He bleeds as he walks, and when he stands it is in a widening pool of his own freshly spilt lifeblood. He cannot live, really, but only bleed out, and sing the sad, strangely striumphant song of all he knows.

An abundance of knowledge, like an abundance of wealth, may become a great burden, if it is not charitably dispensed, through an equal abundance of virtuous words and deeds. There are misers of understanding, hoarders of sense, too proud of their learning or their unlearned insight; too proud to share it freely and, so, part with the distinction of having secret or obscure knowledge. There are some so greedy for facts, they make no discrimination as to ultimate value, but lump all knowledge together, as if no grouping of facts, however arbitrary or far-removed from the pursuit of human perfecton, were too insignificant to devote one's entire carreer to the classification of. Yet, this is what so many of our supposedly best minds are busy, very busy, with. Can there be any doubt that this not only a form of addiction, but a particularly dire and distressing one at that; a manifestation of the pettiest motivations of the species? Admittedly, such people may be admired for the passion of their curiosity (generally, a paradoxically "cool" brand of passion, but all the more fixated and unrelenting than the more impulsive variety), and their keen attention to detail. But their "cool" passion has clearly run away with their curiosity, and their keen attention to detail has overlooked the greatest distinction of all: the distinction between meaningful and meaningless.

'Knowledge is proud that he has learn’d so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.'
~ William Cowper

Others, with a most pure form of discrimination, tend almost singlemindedly to the development of their spiritual faculties. Dilligently, they record the visitations of Mary, Athena, or Kuan Yin, which grace their most blessed meditations. But they scrawl these revelations in private journals, and lock them in drawers as though they were adolescents stashing pornography; ashamed, or merely afraid of being found out. This is a great tragedy, for the light of grace is kindled in this way so rarely, and to waste such measureless blessings, pointlessly and unnecessarily, is to hide crystal candelabras under barrels, which would otherwise give light to the entire house, as well as be admired for their own beauty. While we may admire the humility which surely motivates the best of these "closet visionaries", even humility may be a trap, since one who wishes to conceal oneself must take care not to conceal the divine gifts which one has received, nor be ashamed of them; but proclaim them from the hilltops.

How desperately do our friends, family, neighbors, and enemies need to hear, over and over again, such glorious witnesses and vindications? Whole swarms of lies come buzzing out of their televisions, biting and infecting them where they sit. The streets are lined with madness; bright, obnoxious fonts on all the storefronts, competing for their attention, drawing their attention to what? Pettiness. Materialism. Anything but what enobles and edifies the human spirit. This is our environment; the psychic air we breathe and live on. This is the real smog.

How thirsty is the entire land for a rain of reassurance, and a comforting vision in the mist? How much longer shall those who see shut their eyes, and those who know close their mouths?

Some are fools because they cannot think, most because they will not. Some are lame, and still they walk, even if they have to limp and stumble. But they become strong. Others, with able bodies, lay about as though they were amputees. Ironically, through inaction, they become lame. But it is their will which suffers, and always suffered some ravenous, unnameable disease.

The maladies are varied and often hard to trace, in the body, in the mind, and in the surrounding conditions; wherever they arise. We may presume to diagnose some obvious affliction, and prescribe some equally obvious remedy. In reality, we are only the blind leading the blind.

Those who could see, diagnosed all maladies alike, as sin, and what they prescribed was both obvious and deeply mysterious. What they prescribed was love; an answer simple enough, but the practice of which could be difficult; a lesson often repeated, by one and all, but enacted rarely, by only a few.

We must admire the true mystics of all faiths, who have taken this teaching to heart. They accomplished what was essential, by ridding themselves of the superfluous. Irrespective of the various religions to which they may have belonged, they are all "honorary" members The Invisible Church; -- for, like those who expressly spoke of God as beyond all religions, their life and message was deliberately (indeed, religiously) simple. Their message was almost simplicity itself; regardless of what soil their mystical flower had sprung out of, what they advocated was essentiallly silence, sincerity, and love.

They were, moreover, easily prompted to distill the teaching even further, by saying only love.

When Love Is Not Enough

When love is not enough, love more.

'Love is the answer, and you know that for sure.' - John Lennon

Jesus says "Physician, heal thyself." Naturally, we all want to be physicians, -- individuals of such charisma, confidence, and grace that our very presence must provide a healing atmosphere for others-- but, we are all still patients, as well. When someone seems, or is, stubbornly resistant to our love, we must try to resist the temptation to subside into dispondency, or to respond by writing them off. We may have to confess that the sickness is as much ours as it is theirs.

If someone is unreceptive to our love, the problem could have a lot to do with our own inability to administer consistent doses of love, or to administer those doses in a way that the patient's psychic system can assimilate it. This is not something we need to feel inadequate about, but it ought to give us pause, when we are tempted to pass judgement on someone else. They say "It is a poor teacher who blames his pupil." Likewise, it must be a poor doctor who blames his patient, and a poor master who blames his disciple.

We are brought up in our society to think in terms of individual repsonsibility, but the largest problems we face are systemic; pessimistic as it may sound, we are only insects caught in a larger web. It is easier to blame the individual, the little man, and to discard him, than it is to understand and to work together for the reformation of an entire culture, -- and, yet, until reforms of this radical a nature are made, individuals will continue to suffer, and to bear the blame. Some types of people will never find their place, -- at least, not in a society which aggressively denies them one.

Perhaps the best we can offer them is a little sympathy, and if that doesn't raise their spirits, we must learn to release the rest to God. Not everyone will find peace in this life, but we can give them as much peace as possible, by not becoming just one more voice of judgment.