I dare not speak of this Inner Presence,
This Radiant, Rapturous Sublimity,
This Warmth, this Richness,
This Fullness, Completion, and Bliss.
Oh, and I dare not say that She Resides,
In the Secret Garden of my Heart,
The Mystical Tavern of The Beloved,
In the Deepest Interiority of my Being.
For in Temple, Church, or Mosque,
The orthodox will assail me with “beliefs”,
Of this Mystery that defies conceptualization,
Shining within the Inner Sanctum.
With fingers pointing, I am "taught",
Prescribed what I must do,
Proscribed what I must not do,
"Reality" described, “Truth” asserted.
One will say, with certitude,
"This is the Holy Spirit!"
Another will declare, knowingly,
"This is Mother Shakti!"
Nondualists will curl their lips,
"This is mere phenomenality!”
Others will insist,
"This is the Touch of God."
And others will dismiss,
"You are simply delusional."
All that they hold forth, is to me,
Mere Words and images,
Each possibly true, possibly,
Each possibly false possibly.
I have no idea "what" She is,
This Beloved that inhabits my Heart,
This Exquisite Rapture,
Without center or periphery.
Perhaps She is the Holy Spirit,
For She both comforts the Heart,
And teaches the mind and spirit,
Illumining the Whole of Being.
Perhaps She is Mother Shakti,
For although formless,
She moves within and as this form,
The Mover of this river’s waters.
Perhaps She is the "Self",
The Ground of Being,
What I Am, before the World and I,
Before all of Creation arose.
Perhaps She is the Touch of God,
For Union was nothing short of Heaven,
And Her lingering Presence, here,
Healing and Benediction immeasurable.
And perhaps... perhaps...
I am simply delusional,
"Possessed", as Ramana felt, early on,
By a most Beneficent Demon.
What matters the name,
What matters the imagined form,
And dare I speak blasphemy...
What matters "Truth" or "Reality".
This Radiant, Rapturous Sublimity,
This Warmth, this Richness,
This Fullness, Completion, and Bliss.
Oh, and I dare not say that She Resides,
In the Secret Garden of my Heart,
The Mystical Tavern of The Beloved,
In the Deepest Interiority of my Being.
For in Temple, Church, or Mosque,
The orthodox will assail me with “beliefs”,
Of this Mystery that defies conceptualization,
Shining within the Inner Sanctum.
With fingers pointing, I am "taught",
Prescribed what I must do,
Proscribed what I must not do,
"Reality" described, “Truth” asserted.
One will say, with certitude,
"This is the Holy Spirit!"
Another will declare, knowingly,
"This is Mother Shakti!"
Nondualists will curl their lips,
"This is mere phenomenality!”
Others will insist,
"This is the Touch of God."
And others will dismiss,
"You are simply delusional."
All that they hold forth, is to me,
Mere Words and images,
Each possibly true, possibly,
Each possibly false possibly.
I have no idea "what" She is,
This Beloved that inhabits my Heart,
This Exquisite Rapture,
Without center or periphery.
Perhaps She is the Holy Spirit,
For She both comforts the Heart,
And teaches the mind and spirit,
Illumining the Whole of Being.
Perhaps She is Mother Shakti,
For although formless,
She moves within and as this form,
The Mover of this river’s waters.
Perhaps She is the "Self",
The Ground of Being,
What I Am, before the World and I,
Before all of Creation arose.
Perhaps She is the Touch of God,
For Union was nothing short of Heaven,
And Her lingering Presence, here,
Healing and Benediction immeasurable.
And perhaps... perhaps...
I am simply delusional,
"Possessed", as Ramana felt, early on,
By a most Beneficent Demon.
What matters the name,
What matters the imagined form,
And dare I speak blasphemy...
What matters "Truth" or "Reality".
As our Beloved Attar has said,
Risking the wrath of the orthodox,
"The sea will be the sea,
Whatever the drop's philosophy."
"The sea will be the sea,
Whatever the drop's philosophy."
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