Solar Storm

 

"I," or some such wayward voice, speak this in the midst of the solar storm, the sky infused with cobalt rose aurora. The hieroglyphs of the zodiac inscribed in the runes of my human physiology, God zeros in on every atom. Here, in the new creation, it is not just that the opposites merge, but they merge in a precise point, the point of incarnation at the center of the cross. There is no more east and west, heaven and earth, past and future, but the cruciform embodiment of glory. There is no more collective, but the infinite multiplicity of unique selves. No more need for any government, political parties, or state bureaucracy, for all political polarities resolve intuitively through the dance of particular persons in this moment. We no longer need a "congress" of representatives. We represent ourselves with unveiled faces, in the politics of spontaneous personal relationship. Goethe wrote, "What liberates the spirit, without providing a discipline, is a disaster." The quantum sea of cosmic energy effortlessly curves into a wave, the wave into a sphere, a point, a bindhu. This granular quantum particularization is the cosmic discipline. The singularity is the discipline of the field, the atom is the discipline of the galaxy, each cell the discipline of the whole body. And is this present moment not the discipline of eternity? God becomes Man so that Man can become God: thus said St. Athanasius in the 2nd Century. But the active power is Womb Man. Woman is a verb. Woman is the alchemy, not even a self, but a transformation, a perpetual dissolving into the passion of silence. It is through the Goddess that God is, and through the silence of Mary's womb that trillions of sutras translate into the Word. What is speaking this morning is not me, but the Sun of God in the dark night of my chest, where sorrow embraces delight through the kiss of bewilderment, whispering, "Nothing is required of you but to become who you are, who you Are in the terrible cauldron of Now. That is enough. That is everything." What is friendship? To allow this red berry, this cocoon, this thread of milkweed in the wind, to claim its sovereignty. How much deeper is that friendship when we allow the sovereignty of our hearts to flower, breathing space for others to selve their own uniqueness? This is our Christ-nature, is it not? To allow, allow, allow the heart to break open and anoint the world with forgiveness.

Art: Sophia Robyn, on Instagram at Sophiarobynarts