Easter Morning

"In his own image, male and female, God created them." ~Genesis 1:27

"Make the male and female into a single one... then you will enter the kingdom.” ~Gnostic Sayings of Jesus, Gospel of Thomas 22

You are the male, and you are the female. Follow an inhalation deep into your chest. Let it puncture you. This is Zaqar, the work of the male: remember your heart.

Pour your exhalation into the womb of stars, emptiness impaled by light. Comfort those who reveal their tears before strangers. This is Naqaba, the work of the female: be pierced.

Where inbreath and outbreath merge, here is the bridal chamber, the beauty of annihilation, Bride and Bridegroom aimed in the hollow curve of the arrow-less rainbow.

Feel the ventricles kiss, vacuums of fullness. Here our juices mingled before creation, before wind stirred the sea, before the blood moon clotted.

Even before lightning became your spine, thrilling the sky with blues, you were the transparency of sudden awakening. You were a fountain of bewilderment spewing galaxies from marble lips in the mind of the void.

Is there not an infinitesimal bindhu between your heartbeats, a dark eternal moment of reckoning, just before God says, "Let there be light"? At last, the beginning.

Everything outside is inside. One breath fills the night. The Spirit weds the Soul, the Soul ravishes the Body.  If you attend the wedding feast in your heart, what enemy can appear on earth? All sentient creatures will bear your grandmother's name. The Judgment will be yesterday.

Sing now, the wounding and the yearning, the stream of wine and the polished cup, the garden dark with fragrance and the sound of the flute, each leaf fluttered by the stillness of dawn.

Love shatters unity like a mirror, every glittering shard a pang in your liver. Not even the Savior snuffs out the flame of your thirst. The mind of Jesus melts into nothing when He whispers, Thou! You hear it as your given name. He comes to you smelling of scullions and turned earth.

His body is so pungent, so tumid with wounds of pearl, a thin green gladiola gashed with portals to another world, deeper inside this one, you wonder if he is the Gardener.

He is. You are the Garden.

Sculpture: Mary Magdalene looking up to see the figure of Jesus, whom she mistakes as the gardener, near his empty tomb; from the Mission Church in Santa Barbara CA.

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