"The true Virgin Mother is mystical eternal silence."
~the Gnostic Valentinus
World. Needs. Silence. Bad. Silence is the gift before forgiveness, the pre-existent harmony of perfect justice, the golden chaos of God. Seeds germinate in silence, because in true silence there is not even the idea of a seed.
Space undulates ananda hip hop waves of silence. Ripples break-dance the symmetry of bliss, strange flavored quarks spinning out of emptiness, charming protons into atoms galactic, spiraling molecules of DNA that shout, "Dance Naked Awake!"
Silence is the feral state of your grounded body at rest, listening to mycelium entanglement. World. Needs. Silence. Bad. Silence is your period, the space between thoughts.
Chattering mind of silence witnesses its own chatter. Spirit-wind of Elohim stirs waves upon the vacuum, softly ruffling silver eggs of trouble with feathers of love. Selah.
All your flames of anger and sex sparks are made of luscious darkness, the color of silence. The cosmos is constructed in the grammar of a silent punchline. Matter is mind and mind is dust.
This commotion is nothing but ever-liberated stillness, pain and pleasure molded out of what cannot be named. Each infinitesimal point contains the vast space around it. This is the irony of all your problems.
Can there be a solution when the only dilemma is seeking it? Just stop using the labels, "pain" and "pleasure." The Name is what we called each other before we were born.
This multi-track outrageous cacophony of tasered homeless 3rd Avenue hustle is unhinged in one vast silent echo. The din of the city a whisper of white noise. Om arising in a Wordless vacuum.
All your 10,000 past lives the electric flash-dance capillary mosaic of hungry angels seeking refuge on the inside of your eyelid at the moment of death. That moment is now. An empty plastic water bottle lying in the desert outside Antelope Wells, New Mexico.
The object evaporates into the subject, a quivering amber afterimage of the blown-out flame. Matter is mind and mind is dust. The only thing in the universe that is imperfect is your understanding.
You do not understand the nature of true silence because you keep trying to exist. "But you already exist, dear one, in the silence of not trying." This is what Dogen trusts me to know by not saying anything.
"Blessed be the midnight of the unwilled, the unremembered, the unknown." This is what Mechtilde of Magdeburg sears into my heart with her silent gaze, burning a black hole through every page of scripture.
Softly comes the owl, just before dawn, stroking the void with silent wings. Now is the time to hear and see what happens in the second verse of Genesis, before creation. The earth is formless and empty, darkness is upon the face of the deep, and a mother's breath broods over the waters. Everything has already happened in the soft explosion of silence.
Breathe like a mountain floating on a cloud. Walk like a river that flows a thousand miles, staying right where it is, still and deep.
Tell me, stranger, as you listen to the nature of true silence, must your heart remember how to beat? Must you leap like a dragonfly with wings on fire? Or coil on your haunches like a hunting panther?
Tell me, friend, as you listen to the nature of true silence, is this the perpetual reverberation of the thunder-clap that shattered your mind when you were born?
Or could it be the ocean of prayer, the dark sweet ocean of prayer, the black formless waters of the mother, where you pour every breath?
Icon: Our Lady of Grace Of The Gate of Dawn, Poland
No comments:
Post a Comment