The heart of God is not sentimental. To allow oneself to be breathed into that groundless chaos is subtraction, not surfeit.

Dying with Christ, Shiva's blade, pruning every branch and twig of the Life Tree, one enters the garden in Winter. The Absolute is not consolation, but perfection of loss. And loss teaches you everything.

A sublime and hollow grief that blossoms into pure compassion cannot be a matter of pride, for there is no one left to be proud of. Becoming God is supreme humiliation. In the New Testament, it is called kinosis, self-emptying (Phil 2:7).

Without a glimmer of holiness, the soul is unveiled as God is unveiled, until they are one and the nakedness. So the psalmist sings in Psalm 42, "Deep calleth unto deep."

Can you taste the color of brilliant silence? Can you hear lightning in the void?

This is a mystic's secret work: to return to her un-created core. To become so devoid of name and form that she cannot possibly be anyone else but the One who gives life to all creatures.

Mary Magdalene, by Carlo Sellitto, 1610

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