We all had tears of laughter in our eyes, shouting, "Don't speak the Word, don't create heaven or earth. Let's just stay crushed together in this wine!"
It was no use. The Old Man cried, "Let there be light!" and everything's been tumbling downhill ever since, from chaos toward order.
We've got to get back to the tangle of luscious vines beyond the broken fence! I can almost smell the honeysuckle, and feel the tickle of clover in my ears, lying in that biogenic field among pulsars of dew, gazing at a string of moons through the dragonfly's wing...
Your otherness, my friend, is a drowsy haze within my optic nerve. You are my seeing.
This place must be Rumi's field, out beyond ideas of right or wrong, the wildness that mothered us both.
Here you can drink from the bowl of my heart until it's hollow. This round emptiness is the fullness we really long for; a ringing sound, the laughter that shakes the belly of the void before God speaks.
We get here through repose, not pilgrimage. Now I'll show you the secret of the Sabbath. The world is made out of sparkling beauty. Every breath is an ocean of love.
Just taste the energy beneath the form. Renew your vow to become what was here before Light.
Painting, Garden of Eden, Jan Breughel
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