The Celestial Telescope

Consciousness, Poetry, Spirituality
(Image: Breughel, “Allegory of Sight” series.)

When we adjust the celestial telescope
that is our spiritual vision,
only the slightest of movements are needed,
a turn of a knob there,
a slight refocusing of the
viewfinder there.

Just enough so that we remove the blur
and the visual defects that distort
the light
and bleeds reality of all of its
exquisite aliveness.

When we do this,
something wonderful
will happen.

Something so utterly astonishing,
it will be like walking a tightrope composed of
lambent strands, stretching out to the horizon
the terminus being an entirely new dimension,
or an numinous landscape
we had only previously encountered
in our most mystical of dreams.

We will be able to peer into
the limitless vistas of the cosmos
and know,
with an inner conviction that shatters all doubt,
that we are swimming in a living
sea,
teeming with
interconnectedness.

When we do this,
the miraculous will become
as commonplace as those
everyday things
so reassuring in their regularity,
like the comforting oscillation of our breathing
or the tides
which, with their mysterious and soothing rhythms,
calm the myriad creatures of the oceans,
into aqueous rest.

The scales,
encrusted with the weight of centuries,
will fall fast from our eyes,
and we will join in
the whirling ecstatic dance
of creation,
with an intensity and an unleashed power that
we never believed we could ever possess.

Before, we could not
take our rightful place on the dance floor,
for we were blind to the
infinite beauty
that swirls all around us,
bathing us in
an unseen light.

Blind,
we could not navigate
the stinging clouds of our unknowing,
which choked us in ignorance,
and could not find ways to quell
the restlessness of our minds.

Blind,
we could not navigate the dense shadows
to find our partner who wants to dance with us to dispel the darkness,
this erstwhile companion
who is,
and always will be,
the ineffable glory
the fiery divine effervescence
that sublime electricity that imbues all of creation with
reverberations of love.

This is the light that ceaselessly flows from eternal springs of truth,
and aches to bring joy
to every darkened corner of our world,
if we will only let it.

When we reconnect with this light,
we finally understand that
the dance and the dancer
are one and the same.

The subtle pulsating energies
that give rise to the sun and the moon and the planets
will be seen by us,
as dazzling explosions of color and of light
magnanimous eruptions in our thought streams, birthing strange and wondrous revelations in our brains
that frees us from our too long imprisonment
and we will feel
on the deepest
of all imaginable levels,
that we are a part of everything
and anything that exists now,
or has ever existed.

After the earth stops shaking,
And these transcendent jewels of wisdom are ours to keep,
a lovely peace,
borne of
a divine and majestic presence,
will gently enfold us
in its mystery and its grace.

After the storm, there is always
an all-encompassing calmness,
where you get to savor what your battles to break through to the sunlight
taught you.

We will be then be catapulted headlong into a thousand new dimensions of being
ways of sharing our precious gift of life
with all others
we scarcely believed
could ever exist.

And when this world is revealed to us
by the divine made manifest,
our joyous tears
will abundantly flow,
baptizing the very ground
upon which we walk,
with their life-giving beneficence.

Unlimited rapture will overtake us,
as we marvel at the sacredness
of every aspect
of existence,
and joy,
will fill our souls to overflowing.

In that glorious moment,
we are given the most wondrous of all gifts
because in that very moment,
when the sleep fell away from our eyes, we are given something so very precious:
the ability to see,
really see,
as if for the very first time
in our lives that are so brief in their unfolding.

Seeing in this way is like
being born anew,
and we will be stunned by the
shimmering freshness of our perceptions.

Everything around us
will be seen as endlessly coruscating waves of color,
rainbows of sentience sanctified by devotion
composed of the
kind of loving radiance
a celestial vibrancy
only found
in the heart.

Little Enigmas

Poetry, Spirituality

(Image: “Dark Sea”, Michael Manley.)

We are all little enigmas,

tied up ever so neatly

in little boxes

with the strings of our  

crippling ignorance.

So much of our light is

strangled by these cords

we whimper away in the shadowy corners

and hide from each other, 

in the musty crawlspaces of our minds,

and there we remain, trapped

prisoners of ourselves.

As we sop up the sweat of our fears, 

their rancid stench lingers 

in the fetid air 

here, and 

over there.

We are imperious lords of 

teeming mysteries 

that fester in the absence of light.

We hear the feverish tumblings of

others, who lust

to crack their dark codes.

 

These are those 

niggling fears,

half-forgotten shadows filigreed with 

acid

that insinuate themselves in the cracks of our brains

and cause our long-entrenched sanity

to crumble.

And because we hunger

to keep these soul eaters at bay

we secret them away 

to the cob-webbed dungeons

of our unexplored lands,

where we banish all

that which is not ready for the light.

 

A single metric inch of space and time

contains endless layers of mystery.

Sentient icebergs we are

drifting through the 

limitless night,

masquerading as

little oases of rationality.

 

So many layers to our secrets!

 

We find ourselves swimming in the murkiness

the sunlit surface dancing miles above our heads

tantalizing us with their shadows.

So much is hidden away in ourselves, 

and so much is hidden even from ourselves. 

 

We gasp for air

suffocating in the aqueous hell

of the murderous depths

no end to the mystery of our being

nothing as it seems

nothing is as it is.

 

Alien creatures we become

even unknown to ourselves

adrift on arctic landscapes 

our voices crying out to be heard 

And to be understood 

by a single soul. 

 

But, as we utter our words, 

they are suspended in the chill void.

 

Words frozen in bubbles of time

we try to melt them  

with an intimation of fire

brazenly stolen away from

the primordial sunrise.

 

We would do virtually anything 

to escape from the

swirling riddles that infect the 

waters of our minds,

save 

what we need most to do, which is

surrender to the mystery.

 

Let the mystery swallow us whole

let the mystery feast on our fears and our ignorance

and spit

out their bones onto the bleached shore

undigesting our 

need for certainty

and our grasping onto a sameness

that is a poor 

substitute for joy.