I
love Jesus. I love the Pagan Solstice Christmas pine. I love Madonna
Mushroom. I love Goddess Shakti. I love the 2nd Century Gnostic
Valentinus who said, "The true Virgin Mother is mystical eternal
silence." Love my wild Buddha-heart. Love the perfect consistency of my
contradictions. Love luscious berries of fire and mistletoe clustered on
the cross of paradox. Love the tree of life in the garden of my body: I
am the apple. Love the newborn sun, and what my body says to my spirit:
"Every particle of me is made of Mother Mater Matter Dust, each atom a
cathedral where pilgrims arrive from the stars to celebrate the miracle
of flesh. O my soul, You irradiate the world through this flesh. I am your
dance. Let there be no more talk of our separation." Here, after thousands
of years of religious combat, my body and soul Christalize into a
single magnum mysterium. And where does this mystery occur? In the
nameless roadside shrine of my chest, in the oat crunch of cows and fur scent of dogs, in a flame that was always burning yet never
lit until Now. Here I celebrate the birth of God, who is this Breath.
Painting: Sacred Bond by James Neafsey
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