Sweet Binaural Dissonance

 

The love of Christ does not heal the wounded heart. The love of Christ is the wound. Stay open, stay open...

Strike the flint of grief against your ancient rage stone. Let that spark start an inferno of love. When opposites kiss at the center of the cross, resurrection happens. The enigma where time begins, where time ends, where Jesus meets Magdalene in a garden of blood-stained flowers.

 

I know you are a light worker. Now be a shadow worker. Transmute dark energy into fire. Glory be the color of silence, womb of song, last terrible note of Bach's St. Matthew Passion. The sweet binaural dissonance of pain and beauty is never merely one, yet not-two, not-two...

 
The veil of the temple is rent by a Mystery unknowable to conceptual thought. Only by surrender to the sound of the final dissonance is the Mystery known, the tremor of B Natural in the agony of C Minor, high frequency oscillation of life and death, buried in the three dark notes of the key, three dark nights of the tomb, the pulse of wine spurting from a wound. 

The wound is here in your chest, clean through your body. The portal of ayin soph leading inward, outward, upward, downward at once, the dot of astonishment right between your nipples. 

Through an infinitesimal stab that never heals, you breathe the new earth. It is a world not made from spirit or matter, spittle or dust, right or wrong ideas: but molded from the gristle of God, the hipbone of Mary pulverized into a healing poultice.

Surely, the fifth element is the cloud around Moses, the stuff that poured from Mohammad's gaze, the golden ether that burnished the face of the Friend as his head fell on his shoulder, millions of angels wringing their hands, clenching their teeth, jolted for the first time in eternity with the barb of an unbearable paradox.

The elements are weary. Stop clinging to fire, grasping water, devouring stones, writing your name in the air. Just become the silence around the battle, distilled into a burning tear, a tear of pain and beauty, never merely one, yet not two, not two...

 

Dip your mind in the chalice of the heart. Dip your story in the bottomless cup of silence. Dip your ancient pain in the grail of the present moment. Somehow uniting two natures, human and divine, the inevitable singularity of Jesus is no contradiction. The contradiction is every other attempt to unravel this entanglement of Grace and sorrow, dust and self-delight.

 

Magnetized by this Grace, evolve. Join the caravan that goes, slow but dancing, toward Christ Consciousness, omega point, flowering at the end of the ages yet incarnate at the crux of time, whose final glory casts a gentle reflection, even now, like a face on the mirror of your heart.    

Image: by Sandre Botticelli, Magdalene holding the head of the crucified Jesus