|
This sense that something went wrong. The sense that we have fallen and taken the world down with us. The sense that all might have turned out better had she not made some colossal mistake in the beginning. The sense that nature disapproves, and every flower is shouting about the impending cataclysm because a dark mother tasted the fruit of unbearable joy. Dear friend, don't you know that humans hesitate and cower before uncertainty age after age, inventing this story again and again? It's how we feel when we don't know how to breathe, when we don't know how to pause between heartbeats, to savor the delicate bouquet of this moment. Some say heaven will appear when this tribulation is over. I say heaven is an infinitesimal grain of silence at the tip of your exhalation, just before you receive the gift of another breath. Meet me here. We'll dance barefoot in the garden where nothing ever went wrong, and there was only one tree, whose roots went deep into the loam, whose branches bent down with clusters of ripening sweet stars, and a sparkling serpent spiraled up the spine of the Goddess. The serpent was Wisdom. The Goddess was Eve. She marveled at the dust in the palm of her hand, blew upon it, and created a Man. - Alfred LaMotte
Are you looking for a quiet place? But friend, you are already here. The repose of your blood between pulsations. A secret chamber in your chest where you have no enemies, no one is to blame, and the endless journey has never begun. Here even prayers for peace need no speaking. You can disperse into the finer element you are before you breathe. You can be the sparkling sky in the lungs of a hummingbird, smoke of sage in desert air, aureole in emptiness where the flame just blew out. Here you can burn away because you remember your body is made of vanished stars. You can stumble and fall into your own rhythm, which feels like you are not moving at all because your mind is at rest in flesh that needs no discipline of stillness. You are a nest inside the egg, a mother's womb that carries her own savior, the seed of what you have always been seeking. Now flower on a Winter night. - Alfred K. LaMotte
|
Archives
October 2024
Categories
All
|