Silence marveling at its own resplendent stillness, is God. Silence breathing, undulating, pulsing into particles of the Mater, is Goddess. The quantum physics of cosmic creation way too sexy for monks and astronomers. Shiva hugging Shakti, the heart merged with its longing. Shakti's vibrations in Shiva fermenting love-juice into wine that satisfies a divine thirst. The Beloved dancing in the space of the Lover's boundless Self-bewilderment, even while She bears the Lover in her womb of oceanic bliss, oceanic pain, waves and troughs of light and dark, each impossible without the other. The stillness of One inconceivable without the dance of Two.
You never left the egg. There was never a shell. The yolk of that moment embodied the eternal future, your ancestors, and your children’s children. The Embryo is All. A wise man follows the star in the eye of his own heart to the manger of the infant who was never born. The laughter of that baby is the dying exhalation of the crone. All these mysterious initiations transpire in the Ayin Soph, the Bindhu of that infinitesimal now. But what do I know?
Thought is futile in love's fiery amazement, the vast wilderness between breathing out and in. Here, at the last tremor of the bee glutted in the golden rose's cup, no trying, no discipline, no secret tantra bring the mystery to pass, for it has always already happened. Just repose in the annihilation of every effort. Drown your mind in the heart. Surrender to the catastrophe that ejaculates the universe. The next inhalation not taken, but given. Be grateful. This is the most naked prayer.
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