Monday, November 12, 2018

Chuck Surface - What is it like?

There are many transient experiences,
“States” experienced along The Way,
Which, although coming and going,
Become, in passing, a part of our totality.

Like a sudden rain of Benediction,
Showering Grace upon our wilted spirit,
Such are these transient states,
Refreshing, renewing, inspiring.

Some rue their ephemeral nature,
And in their passing, deem them “gone”,
But their Waters only appear to have dried,
Having sunken more deeply into our Roots.

There are “stations”, as well, along the Way,
Enduring Transmutations of our Being,
No longer coming and going,
Having become inherent in our experience.

Like the Sudden cracking of a green bud,
Revealing pedals formerly hidden,
Never again a seed, never again a bud,
An event in time, as the Timeless Blossoms.

I smile at the implication of finality,
In words like enlightenment and awakening,
For no matter the profundity of one's station,
“Enlightening”, as I see it, is an endless affair.

The mystic poets use the word Love,
To describe the longing that moves us,
And That to which our longing aspires,
For longing is “of” That which is longed for.

And although Love is a word so entwined,
With romantic, embodied connotation,
Even so, when we read the Mystic Poets,
It is our Souls that leap in Recognition.

Recognition, Remembrance, Knowing,
More Intimate than any other,
An Ancient Memory of Something Known,
But somehow, along the Way, forgotten.

A whisper, from the depths of our Soul,
A still, small voice, Reminding us,
Of Existing before all dualities,
In the Ecstasy of
Heaven .

Remembrance, whether transient or enduring,
While birthed in Oneness beyond duality,
Contains, in our manifest experience,
A masala of qualities, an advieh of attributes.

You Feel Loved,
Wholly, Completely, Absolutely,
In a way you could not have conceived,
But… no one is there, Loving you.

You Feel Held,
Not in imagination, but tangibly,
Embraced, enfolded, enveloped,
And yet… no one is there, holding you.

You Feel Richness and Warmth,
Filling your Experience, within and without,
No matter the ever-changing nature,
Of that which appears without, or arises within.

You Feel Fullness and Completion,
In your Deepest Interiority,
Unmoving, Impenetrable, Absolute,
The end of lack, and grasping for “more”.

You no longer feel “your” self,
Though all that defined “you” remains,
Unowned, in a space now Serene and Empty,
But Full, of Exquisite, Vibrant Aliveness.

You feel Bliss, a touch of Union's Ecstasy,
Shining without center or periphery,
That when Rested into, carries you away,
Into the Ecstasy of Dissolution.

Radiant, as well, in the Heart of Being,
Is Fathomless Gratitude and Appreciation,
For the Experience of manifest existence,
For the Kingdom of Heaven is Within.

However futile it may seem to reason,
You cannot help but Pray,
For the end of all suffering,
Everywhere, Now, and forever.

You Feel Affection for all that appears,
In the Dream of manifest existence,
A Tender Hearted but Fierce Desire,
For the Happiness, the Rightness, of All That Is.

You Feel yourself in Intimate Relationship,
With this Incomprehensible Mystery,
And are ever in communion and dialog,
In the wordless language of The Heart.

Like Attar, You no longer know anything,
No longer understand anything,
You feel yourself so Deeply in Love,
But with whom, with what, you do not know.

Like Rumi, you no longer know who you are,
The Beloved having woven Herself,
So Intimately into the fabric of your Being,
That you live in Astounded, Lucid, Confusion.

Like Ibn Arabi, yours is the religion of Love,
And wherever you come upon its Sweetness,
In mosque, temple, or church, or tavern,
There is your belief, the faith you hold.

Like Hafez, and “every sane person he knows,”
You have jumped overboard from the ship,
Of binding orthodoxy and shackling dogma,
Into the lifeboat of the Poet, the Lover.

You have become as a Mad Dervish,
Wandering the Wilderness of The Unknown,
Cherishing Experience above ideology,
Dancing, where dancing is

Your Life is a Play of Mystical Delight,
In which the Player upon the stage,
Is ever Enfolded in the Love,
Of The Director's Gaze.

You are a Wave no longer separate,
Dancing upon, and as, the Ocean of Bliss,
In which the tides of life's ecstasies and agonies,
Ebb and flow in the Mystery that You Are.

Do you see why it is called madness?
Do you see why it is called Intoxication?
Do you see why it is called the Beloved?
Do you see why it is called Love?

For this one, at least
That is what it is like.