Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Number Twenty Nine

From hope is born the images of a life between lives.  The gates, the gardens, the hall of judgment.  Roman columns grace facades lost in the clouds.  All lovely.  All wrong.  A physical mind invents physical forms .

Hope looks for the familiar landscape, a place made from vacation post cards.  Mediums send greetings from the dead.  We seek angels who will guide us to the face of god.

But god is busy.  And when we get there, the scene is whatever we make up.  The only thing real is the soul itself.  Which holds some sense of the divine, and must wait for love to set in.  For the truth to dawn above the delusion of each abandoned life. 

In this world, hope is not some imagined heaven.  It is the sense of our purpose, the drive to uncover the plan we came with, the moment when the thing we have waited to do presents itself -- and we look for the strength to act.

The next life arrives in whatever form.  True and unimaginable.  At the last station, the landscape is strange but familiar, a home we cannot remember.  It doesn't matter.  Hope is for this world -- that of all possible roads, we take the one we'd already chosen.

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