Getting organized for my trip.
The day started out with a wintry mix of snow and sleet. It's been cold and wet all day.
I'm suffused with a subtle, underlying sense of the sorrow in the universe. It is a material, tangible sorrow, played to a counterpoint of absolute joy. These two forces blend together equally in every material arising; the reconciling force of love holds them all together.
They don't arise from sentiment; no, the source of their arising lies deep within the roots of reality, in places where the simple, ordinary emotions of man cannot go. I draw the sustenance for Being from those roots, and I blossom--intentionally or unintentionally, with or without my participation--into what I am, but the fineness of the earth from which I spring lies beyond my reach or understanding.
Yes, it sounds like poetry, not the Gurdjieff work. But the Gurdjieff work, as I grow older, does not seem reducible to a set of ideas or formulas, methods of working, and so on. It is a whole experience where nothing can be divided from anything else, and the entire world sings within the blood of the individual who works.
If not poetry, then what?
It's a privilege to participate in this life, this act of perceiving. How often do I remember that? How often do I turn myself back to the deepest of appreciations, an appreciation that rises from sensation, moves through the intelligence, and finds itself embraced by a sorrow that is right and good and necessary?
May our hearts be opened, and our prayers be heard.