Thursday, October 23, 2014

Can't be explained.

 The darkness gives way to perfection; the sun rises into perfection, and it sets into perfection. It is all a whole thing; and it is one day. It may be this day; for me, it is. But it is every day.

This day and every day are filled with nothing but impossible things, all of which exist. I can't explain that. I can't, in fact, explain anything; yet I am intelligent. What I do see is that I can obey — I can open to these impressions, obey this life, and come into alignment in such a way that I express a right obedience in my Being.

When this takes place, all of the perfections belong to me as much as they belong to those things which are perfect. I'm not significant; but the perfection is, and my awareness makes the relationship possible in which it is acknowledged.

Ah — so difficult to explain. How can one take the yellow leaves, the blue sky, and print them in letters anywhere? They are printed in the soul, and nowhere else. That is good enough; and yet one wants more, one wants the soul to not only take in the world, but to pour it back out with generosity. One wants to both hold the world and let go of it at the same time. Can't be explained.

 I wish I could learn to love perfectly in the way that creation loves perfectly; but, of course, that perfect love is merely a reflection of even greater love that births it. I see that my own self, as it flows through me, is flawed; and yet even within this flawed nature, it participates. Even the flaws are correct; can't be explained.

I wish to be within myself so much that I am not myself anymore; I sense a much greater truth than anything my mind can think of here, within this Being.

I can't eliminate what is outward and ordinary in me; they are the canvas on which Being is painted.

Sometimes, I can even feel the colors being applied to me.

 Can't be explained.


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