Receive breathing deus, your help from the centre.
Receive community and put back into the body every good and every praise ever offered.
May each sacrifiece and every suffering be translated
to produce fruit from a cognitive heart, in resonant accord with the real.
Allow this to become an expression of unity
with gifts and strivings marked for wholeness.
Let us enjoy this delight, together
share our witness, an engraced song
given and received, deus breathing.
I look out of the window and try to mentally shrink all that I see. Meadows, trees, cattle, sky with rain heavy westerly clouds; I try to pull all of this into itself. The glass also, and the desk, and myself sitting behind the desk; reduce all to its pre-nothingness. Make the unmade trackless waste, tohu and bohu, reduce the worlds all to formless void and then squeeze this featureless potential further unto from whence it came. The from whence it came is now present.
Less than a dot. I conceive and preceive all as less than a dot and then reduce it further. I then approach this and inspect it. Can I know it? Can I know my knowing of it? For I am in it as who I am and who I will be and as all that I was; can this twist of knowing become known?
The can knowing in known now. This known totality. All hovering probability. No more questions, except; could this be now returned? Returned to trees, ramped plant life in verdant hot rain fervour, returned to the slow glimmer of water pressed against glass, returned to a rainbow balancing on the pine plantation.
Then terrible heralds, shattering mountains.
Then a most intimate speaking, gentle breeze.
A shattering intimacy which at last manages the direct challenge: what are you doing here?
I am left holding a dot which grows at an ominous speed. And I am the dot, held below a universe that grows at incredible speed. And I cannot put all the leaves back in place, and yet every leaf and every cow and the clouds all appear to know in the exactitude of their being just where they should be.
Where should I be?
I am not exempt from the habits of persona. Persona is not to be distinguished from its flatness. Flatness comes from settling below the weight of a cosmos as dot, suddenly growing in your lap.
This skinny slip of a shadow; poor thing! And like the universe it may easily be inflated, but this is not the end.
One dresses up in worldliness in order to to camouflage one’s being. It hardly ever works.