The Spirit Descends

This, more than any other,

is the moment.

I raise my arms to the skies,

I raise my soul to the mystery
of all that is, and is to come,

and I wait.

I wait in expectation,

my hands open, ready to receive,

my heart open, ready to be filled,

my soul open, ready to be blessed

with the spirit on this, my Pentecost.

O marvelous fire
I beseech you,
fill my hands with gratitude,
fill my heart with your love,
fill my soul with your blessings,
with your sweet burning,
with your flame
which lights but does not sear,
with your incandescent grace.

O sweet mystery

you are my hands filled with gratitude,

you are my heart filled with love,

you are my soul filled with blessings,

you are all my pain, not vanquished,

but made sweet.

You are the arc of heaven

which bends with grace above me,

you are this great ocean

which I stand before

in wondering silence,

You are all that I am:

You are me.

Sacred Friend

There we sat on the beach, our hands with the playful fingers, always ready to let the sand run through them, now quietly resting on the same sand - while he was talking, and I was listening. At first he was searching for words, and somewhat reluctant to release them, to let them free in the air where they could either rise up to the light or fall silent on the sand. They fell, his words, in good earth they fell. Those words, coming from the depth of his soul.

They painted before me a man who made himself a mirror and did not shun his reflection. He looked at every incompleteness, every flaw and imperfection, and fought the fight of his life, like Jacob wrestling with his angel. It wore him down time and again, and his heart broke manyfold, but he did not flinch. He observed himself, he studied his inner and outer being. Gradually his reflection began to change form until one day it disappeared and even the mirror dissolved like a base metal in an alchemic process. 

Born again, he looked at the man that he had become - a man who had won, not only the battle, but also had ended the war against himself. The battle he had won was the victory over his small self - the victory over judgement and dualism. He had gained compassion, and more. No longer unaware, he had gained bliss. Pure bliss.

My silence was not mute. My silence spoke, while his words reached my open hands, and my heart. 

Painting by Hendrik Mesdag