The Eastern Star

The Song plays on in this forever-now; it calls. I only dream I can't hear it, for there is no chance of my not hearing what is forever mine. The little life I think I have, this is but a desperate refusal to let go a tiny moment of fear that was healed and gone in my (our) creation. Herein lies the clue of the ages, not because You tease us with some grand mystery, as if You were a cosmic fooler. No, it is a clue because we who dream of separation catch glimpses of our Reality: You. Our Home.

Our tiny moment of fear made us feel suddenly alone, and this made us feel as if we had betrayed You. But You, being perfect Love and only this, know that we, Your Son, remain forever as created. But our sense that we threw our Home away was so unbearable that we fell into a deep sleep and dreamed we were many. This in order to displace this terrible guilt onto others like us, but different. We needed something to perceive with, so we made bodies, thus a world in which to house the bodies.

But Dearest, You simply sing to us, knowing we never could leave Home, only dreamt it so. We think we cannot understand this, but we are simply hiding. Yet truthfully, we awoke in the same instant that we slept, as it is not Your Will that Your Son be anything but Your Son. Thus, the hiding--and the world--is over. The Eastern Star hangs in a night sky we made because we believed in darkness; but the Star gently reminds that nothing unreal exists, no one real has been harmed.

There is no harm, no dark sky; none but a tiny forgetting that we are with You; and since it is not Your Will that Your Son be anything but Your Son--forever one with You--neither harm nor dark skies can exist: They are unreal. As are the stories we told ourselves, thus our children, of an angry god, a god who holds "love" in one hand, and dangerous rage in the other; whose all-too-human failings would have destroyed him eons before he had even a thought of making a little planet, and peopling it with tiny creatures with huge desires they know nothing of, then punish them when they err.

Dearest, my Creator--Father/Mother/Great Spirit--I yearn for You, though You are right where I (think I) am; my (our) nightmares mean nothing. They cannot prevail against the peace You Will for us. What is called the Holy Spirit, our link to the memory of Who we really are; is this the Star we see? Are we one with that Light that never goes out (because "going out" has no meaning)? The Whole of us, called The Christ, remembers You. "He" is the Self we thought we lost, but no, not ever, because You are perfect Love. Thus, we are not stepchildren.

I want to remember You. I find I think of You more and more as I go about these little days with which the world I see is cloaked. Everything I see, I make; everything I see is not only in my mind, it is my mind. And You are right "here". You are in everything I see; this means what I see is a result of perception, thus has no effects; because since You are in everything I see, everything I see must be but shadows on the walls of my mind. Is this not so, Father?

Yes, the Song calls. The Star shines, its sparkle a calm and gentle reminder that God's sleeping Son awoke long ago in his terms of time; awoke and saw his (our) Creator holding us in His perfect Love. The light we see is the light we are. The gifts we receive are those we had given. Creation, after all, is sharing. Sing we all the Song, recall our Home we never could leave; this is ours, this perfect mind we dreamed had split into untold pieces. We awoke, nothing was lost; we shared a gentle laugh. Thank You, Dearest. Amen.

I Believe In The Light

This morning, before dawn, I woke and saw through barely open eyes, a golden light. The light seemed to be coming through branches of a tree. My eyes opened as if by their own volition, and I realized I was looking at the floor lamp at the end of the couch. The lamp was off.

I believe such a light exists. I believe it is here, right where we (think we) are. I think the light is not a figment of imagination, nor synapses firing; I believe in the light.

We who dream we are no more than skin stretched over a collection of bones; we whose joy demands its opposite; we who believe in darkness...we are the offspring of this light!

And such peace! No opposite to this. Attendant to the light, but one with it. Yes, and it seems so still, yet a certain passion rides along with it; a passion for creativity, as this is its nature. To be creative; to dance the eternal dance.

I said the light seemed to come through trees, but it was not sunlight; and maybe the branches were symbols for our veiled vision. I recently practiced seeing this light "in" all the people, buildings, cars...What I saw cannot be put into words.

There is a Song. Somehow, it is not so that we cannot hear its melody. We simply shut off our hearing when we made these ears. The body's ears were made to hear a world that is not there, as the body's eyes were made to see that illusory world. We all know the Song.

The light faded as I opened the body's eyes, and saw the dark lamp shade. I was not disappointed, as I know by now that the light cannot go away. It is here, it is eternal, it is real. It was I who returned to the physical, as we always do, because we are convinced it is our home, when Home awaits in perfect patience.

Only This (first version. Unfinished.)

Are we adrift? Is there no shore? Is it true that we are the creation of infinite anger? Do ancient words have power over us, or is it we who decide how to interpret? How many ways to see the same teaching?

There is “something” here. It is felt so deeply that most of us are unaware of its life within us. But it is not so that we cannot see, and this something is more than within us.
This is more than a sense, more than some indistinct presence, that cannot really do anything for us but watch as we struggle along our frightened way, whistling in the dark. The ancient words say that it is closer than skin. But then they say other things that make us more afraid. This contradiction tears at us with fingers of old shame, their nails dirty with the guilt of ages past.

We keep reading, trying to understand. But which is it? Are we damned, or blessed? If we cannot untangle this burden, then let us release it, and begin again.

Come. Rest here. For not only is there a shore, it is our home, and we never did leave it…and we never could. We can pretend we left it, and we do. We act as if we are separated from this something, which created us. Yes, we are created. We act as if we are also separated from ourselves, and from one another. But in truth, there is no “other”. And yet, there are many “others”, with different beliefs and from different religions, or no religion. But even those with no religion, who think they just popped out of nowhere, from nothing, into nothing; they sense as well this something…this energy, this presence, this everywhere existent, that we call “God.”

Once we say that word, what is left? Do we cower, cover our nakedness, or do we see at last the reality behind the old legends of our Creator? No, be brave. So afraid have we been, that we see controversy in not using the uppercase letter, and in avoiding the many pronouns to describe “Him”. Or “She”. Or “It”. There is no need to fear. If you want to use capital letters, then use them. Let us ask the reader to use whatever pronoun is comfortable, and let us continue.
God does not ask, “What have you done?” He knows His creation only as He created it. Does He think we are wicked? How could He think so, and Himself remain good? If His perfect creation, His Son, does horrible things to his brother, how does God remain sane? How is there peace if even one soul burns? It is hard to see how on one hand, God has only one Son, but on the other hand, His Son has a brother. Hard, but not impossible.