Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

No singular resurrection

Love is
The funeral pyre
Where I have laid my living body.

All the false notions of myself
That once caused fear, pain,

Have turned to ash
As I neared God.

What has risen
From the tangled web of thought and sinew
Now shines with jubilation
Through the eyes of angels
And screams from the guts of Infinite existence

Love is the funeral pyre
Where the heart must lay
Its body.”
― Hafiz, The Gift

this is something I am learning
I cannot say I have already learned it

for it is elusive, and I am forever chasing this truth
down dusty roads
and into dark alleyways,

catching glimpses of it everywhere
being able to firmly hold it in my hand

this is something I am learning
that life comes from dying,
fullness comes from emptying,
freedom comes from binding myself to love

that I most find myself when I lose myself in
the One Who is Love

When I let myself self be deconstructed,
by a love so intense that all that I was
is destroyed

for in that ending is a beginning
I am re-created by
that same love

and “risen
From the tangled web of thought and sinew”

I find myself again
Child of God

But this is not a singular death
Nor a singular resurrection

For I must die and die
And die again
To all those things in my
Which would rob me of peace and joy
of life

for in every death there is a beginning
and once again I rise

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