Even the Guru, who proclaims: “Love is in all things” – basks in the glowing gaze of his adoring followers. The circumstantial circle of adoration, beaming back and forth through the garden under the fruit trees, feeds his teaching, and he knows it. If he is completely honest with himself, he knows this. The set and setting of Eros, erupting, requires a careful selection process. A precise location. An individual discernment that knows itself to know the other; knows the other, to know the self.
I’ve seen the spiritual truth of interconnectedness with my own psychedelic eyes; bathed in the glory of an all-absolving gratitude. I know, I mean, I know, I AM Here Now. And it is everything.
Then why this particularity? My solitary heart aching in a little field by the side of the road, gazing up at the hazy red moon, rising. Why just your eyes? Why just your hands? Why is it that only your specific body merges with mine in such an organically sacred union it dissolves time and all the circumstantial space between us? Why does my heart cave in only when you leave? Why, when I have memories of attuning to an all-encompassing Isness, can I still be shattered to pieces by the particular? How can the specific arrangement of cells that carries you* around in the realm of separation affect me* this much?
* And I mean – Just you –
* And I mean – Just me –
Rumi wrote the most exquisite love letters to God only after being set ablaze by the sunlight of a particular lover. Rilke wrote his ecstatic verses to the sky only through the fire of a deeply intimate human relationship. A particular resonance that changed his eyes; his entire way of seeing – everything.
What is it You make possible in Me?
What is it I make possible in You?
And why the distance between the two?
The Sun illuminates the Moon and allows us to perceive her – not as she is – but as she becomes under the influence of her cosmic counterpart. During a Lunar eclipse, the Earth briefly drifts precisely between the two, casting the shadow of a momentary severance that changes neither’s essence, yet dramatically affects the optics. And then, precisely and particularly timed, the orbital passage carries on, a flash of light, a diamond of reunion sparks across the sky. “Hey, I remember you from before.” I re-member myself in your glow, gathering limbs and cells and organs, put back together as one unified whole. Exactly and peculiarly so.
We dance in the optics of separation. My celestial body feels dimmed in the shadow of an illusory and temporal abandonment. Pain pours gasoline on the fire of love that permeates every-thing. We come alive in each other’s eyes, wouldn’t know belonging without longing for such an immensity of hours in which we orbit out of sync until we meet once more.
When the mystic proclaims: “Love is in all things,” I know this includes you. I mean, I know that to be precisely and particularly true.
Metaphysical Mulch 