i am

I continue bathing myself in this book of Love. Bathing, yes, is the word for it, for as I sink into the words on the page, the feelings of being enveloped in the warmth of Love as I read are as much a part of the experience, as is the feeling of cleansing from my skin that which has stuck to me over the years, dulling the radiance of what I once knew. Yes, there are moments, as i read, of re-sounding remembrance, as there are others of new wonder, as if being shown (shone) more.

Oh, the both/and-ness of our existence. On the one hand, we are so very small (and in this I wonder at how profoundly we are loved , how it can be that we are possibly attended to by so vast and intimate a Love that we cannot begin to express nor comprehend.) On the other hand, we are so very big, much more than our bodies, these small selves that we are here and now merely the receiving/transmitting end of that greater consciousness that we are and of which we are a part..outside of time. *

Even writing these words diminishes it. Exposes it to the ridicule of those who cannot yet see the beauty we bear. And that is ok, too. Part of the healing is knowing the goodness of oneself so assuredly that nothing can cross that boundary to violate. Part of the healing, as well, is loving the other, who knows not… that S/he is Love… who forgets, as we all do.

Recently, the Japanese poetry form, Tanka, was introduced to me (it seems it is a favorite of Jane’s). The big sister to Haiku, its form includes 31 syllables in 5 lines. 5-7-5-7-7.

And so, in response to this morning’s bath, I write.

I am a being
more capable of bearing
Love, into this place
than I imagine my Self
My body, a piece of art.

The piece of art that I am in this small, distinct life, is merely one single attempt at expressing something much greater than I am, in the here and now. Like the human artist, who tries to express something ineffable upon the canvas, yet can never quite distill or capture it, nor can the Divine be truly poured onto the canvas of life so that It can be understood.

I wanted to include the word ‘mere’ in that last line of the tank— ‘a mere piece of art’— but, you see, the form wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t allow me to diminish with too many words. Forced me to celebrate the beauty I am…. and the Beauty I am bound to.

*the research about mind/consciousness/awareness and DNA fills me with wonder here. How it is that our brains cannot possibly hold and process all this thought/memory/information, but are merely receivers tuned into a broader nonlocal, unitive One, quite possibly through our body’s specific DNA. Again, I belittle the research in this simplistic writing.

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