The truth waits to become action.
It cannot be found in going back to the beginning. Or the last thought. The truth cannot be found in the familiar rooms of a house, or the emotion as the sun throws shadows at dusk.
The truth waits to become action. It is not the certainty. Not the righteousness or the anger. It is not the word of god.
The truth is the embrace. Without need or expectation. Without hope. Without response. Without anything.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Number Thirty Four
Here in the darkest regions, where we can't know the truth, we sense a weight and power that cannot be contained by language. Or thought. Something transmitted by light. But beyond the threshold of ordinary vision.
The galaxies emit that light, a visual echo of the big bang. The light at the beginning, the first willed explosion, suggests the source. As the universe expands, each galaxy more and more alone, the light speaks with less clarity. Less remembrance.
The rock we live on flies further and further from the truth. No telescope can find the source. It is too late; we are too far away. We are alone.
And all that is left is the next choice; the next act of will. Out here in the night we look for the truth that comes from doing or not doing. As if the light, the source, can be seen somehow in every intention. Every act.
The galaxies emit that light, a visual echo of the big bang. The light at the beginning, the first willed explosion, suggests the source. As the universe expands, each galaxy more and more alone, the light speaks with less clarity. Less remembrance.
The rock we live on flies further and further from the truth. No telescope can find the source. It is too late; we are too far away. We are alone.
And all that is left is the next choice; the next act of will. Out here in the night we look for the truth that comes from doing or not doing. As if the light, the source, can be seen somehow in every intention. Every act.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Number Thirty Three
The angels wait for us to listen, for the moment we are ready. They are the teachers among us. We are deaf with pain. They tell the story of where we come from; what we're here to do. We tell the story of how we were broken.
We make pictures of angels -- tall with alabaster wings. We give them roles -- the angel of death, the angel at the gate. But they are just us, survivors of birth and loss, coming to work at this difficult school. With children who will not sit still, who run through the halls.
In the way we seek to be heard, they seek to be heard. In the ways we watch helplessly while ones we love devolve, collapse, they watch us go blithely on. Consumed with the illusion; fixing, fixing, fixing what has no remedy.
We make pictures of angels -- tall with alabaster wings. We give them roles -- the angel of death, the angel at the gate. But they are just us, survivors of birth and loss, coming to work at this difficult school. With children who will not sit still, who run through the halls.
In the way we seek to be heard, they seek to be heard. In the ways we watch helplessly while ones we love devolve, collapse, they watch us go blithely on. Consumed with the illusion; fixing, fixing, fixing what has no remedy.
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