(A Word-Play by Mazie & Bob, 2003)
Therese: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Confessor: If you wish to make a good confession, observe and recognize that the only “sin” is in clinging to the mistaken belief that you are somehow divided from your own Source. Bless yourself by directly awakening to the truth that you have never been nor could ever be truly separate from That.
T: Then there is only a Great Perfection, appearing as everyone and everything!
C: True, or more belief?
T: My Love, my Sin!
C: We love the Sin too, eh?
T: The Sin, the Dream.
C: We tell ourselves such stories!
T: But what of my desires?
C: God is full of desires.
T: There is a desire within all desires.
C: The closer to the source it hums the more transparent it becomes.
T: I am an empty cup.
C: Placed upon the table of the Lord.
T: Before time.
C: You Are.
T: There are moments when I forget — this is my Sin!
C: Who is this great sinner now before me?
T: I would renounce even Heaven for one glance from Beloved’s Eyes!
C: And when it is seen that there is nothing to renounce?
T: Then I shall renounce renouncing.
C: Ah, the music begins, an opening step . . .
T: It never ends.
C: Steps become dances.
T: Without moving, I am swept into my Beloved’s Arms.
C: God can do such things – and who then is renouncing?
T: In the moments when I feel His absence, what penance, then, for the sin of wanting life to be other than it is?
C: The usual, Dear Heart — alone in Love, as Love Itself, turn and bow simultaneously in all directions to the Beloved you Are. In that way, you may tacitly forgive the dream of separation. No muttered words or ritual signs could ever be sufficient, true wisdom must awaken to itself.
T: The Beloved — any moment lived even a hairsbreadth outside of Him is penance enough for this heart!
C: Just so, and where might be this imaginary place outside of Beloved?
T: Any time my mind wanders from the thought of Him, I feel as though I am standing outside looking in. He acts as if He does not Hear me, and to feel this for even an infinitesimal amount of time, is pain beyond endurance. That Beloved One! Inside the thought of Him, there, there shall I remain, “in the dim dungeon of Death with worms that are Thy chambermaids . . .”
C: Even now, we wander in His Garden, believing we are elsewhere.
T: The cypresses shoot to the Sky of Infinity. Roses climb one another for the delight of twining. The fig tree holds out its fruited children – an offering for the Master Gardener. “My Peace is to remain small.” The Pomegranate blossom hides the blush on my cheeks as I Gaze through the wild white lilies and See the Face of my Beloved. The Fragrance of that Moment wafts throughout Eternity. The Scent of our Love, the Love of this little flower and her Adorable Blessed Lord will stain the Hearts of Lovers till time burns itself out again.
C: The Original Face, Face in the Fire, Fire in the Heart, Heart of Peace, Peace of the Pomegranate — all is blooming as the blush on your cheeks, while you gaze through the wild white lilies at that Adorable One. That same One is gazing at you with your own eyes, the eyes of a little flower – so pleased with this perfumed offering! Her Lord is a Gardener of Delight, twined with His Garden of innocent Light!
T: I trace the motion of light in the air. Innocence springs from that action alone, like a child running naked along some beach, oblivious to any thought of shame or guilt. Inside this Heart-Cup, a still Pool of Awe reflects the Face of the Beloved One. What Face Is This that cannot be seen directly, but must be gazed upon in Reflection? It is the Fire, the Blazing Torch, or the Cinder? Until one is Sacred Ash streaked across the forehead of Love, they will not see the Beautiful One. Many are His mirrors marking time, making faces appear and disappear, the waves lifting from the Sea, slowly sinking back again into That Depthless OneHeart.
C: Shapes shift, facades fade as Spirit plays the Masquerade of light and darkness, fire and ash. In ocean’s depth a dream of waves arises in disguises worn of water – all drops on the wet mirror of itself. At the feet of a child the wild tide tumbles in, only to slip out again. What’s drawn out in that turning returns as the smile of spontaneity, of soulfulness without guile.
T: The waves wash over me, trailing streams of radiant light, sweeping in, taking everything I once considered me and mine, then flow back out to sea, accepting the offering of my smallness. The sound echoes back to me from the depths of Silence, the HeartSong I hear inside is Christ calling me, calling me from the slumber of many lives. He tells me to Listen.
Listen … Listen.
Tell me Dear Father, if you hear Him now, what does He say?
C: He whispers:
“Don’t stop at my Image – go further. Find out how it could be that a barren womb becomes pregnant in a thought, by a thought. When your desire becomes as urgent as that of a drowning man gasping for air, or like one whose hair has caught fire, the soul becomes a fertility irresistible to That Lover.
The fruit of such union is Love, for it cannot be any other way, there being Only Love, yet this Love is not what any fantasize Love might be, in mere fascinated flashes of chameleon belief. Love is an impotent, useless word for those who are yet strangers to the mysterious transmission of their own Heart Core.
Most who come this way stop at the Image, worshipping an Icon, carved by conditions, sanded by time, polished by devotion to a yet tyrant mind.
Whatever is seen, known, or spoken is not it, so be silent, even in your song. Let the Silence be seen by your ears, heard by your eyes. Even thunder can’t compare. Fall into this little death, die back into your life.
Let that seed of Mystery bury itself deeper, burrow further, until, in the abundance of grace, you find Me and . . . there is nobody there, and you find yourself and . . . there is nobody there, and you find your truth at last and . . . there is no thing there.”
T: No, not a thing at all! A pawn of the Heart, a pawn of Christ — I move as I am moved, yet there is nobody here, nothing happens. This trembling you may see — in realizing Itself, It trembles, trembles in Exaltation, exhorting the Heart to open wider, deeper! It wantonly weaves this Mystery, this Mystery of everything appearing out of nowhere! How amazing – this, just This! This life is Joy breaking into Bliss, the very face of Grace!
C: There are some who might imagine that they can know Love’s Face, but Love has no such countenance, identity, or place. Love is always what remains when every trace of vanity’s dull tinder is incinerated by the Heart’s consuming blaze.
T: Father, such Grace has no face, and yet, Grace shines forth in every face that I behold, even as I recognize that nobody is there . . . still, this trembling Heart! This Heart trembles like a bright bird caught in some Divine Love Snare.
C: Consider this: are you the same one now who fell into the snare?
T: No, nothing stays the same, it’s true.
C: Then who now is trapped, and who escapes?
T: When I ponder this, I do not know. And strangely . . . there is a secret joy in such not knowing!
C: An empty cage is filled with heart-broken bird song — is there any other miracle than this?
T: Oh, the melody — such beauty! How this miracle astonishes itself!
C: Isn’t this what we have come here for – this lyrical wonder?
T: Perhaps it is so, but are we not also here to advance spiritually?
C: Isn’t it an odd thing, that the already perfect wishes to be more perfect? That the seeker sets off in search of herself, going through all sorts of travails, only to find that the one she has always been, even from the beginning, is the very one she has sought, and all the obstacles along the way have been nought but her own design?
T: If so, then both freedom and bondage are merely groundless thoughts! Could it be, that in my true and original nature, I am beyond any creaturely designation, that no rope or chain in the mind of men can ever hold or limit me?
C: It just may be, but if that is so, what then will you say?
T: Ah, what more would there be for me to say, but to humbly bow and sigh, “Amen”.
C: Yes, Dear Heart, and even now, beyond any cage, that Bright Bird sings, “Amen!”