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.