April 1, 2017
How strange it is we have forgotten where we came from and what we are. Immigrants from a place of light, we take our turns here building nests and finding food and soon we forget the Home we started from. This world makes us fear that place. We think there’s nothing there, but we needn’t worry. That place and this place are the same place, though they’re not a place.
There is no place where the river’s current is, no place where sunlight collects. There is only this Pouring Forth, and there is nothing from which, or into which, it pours.
It’s not easy to talk about this, since it doesn’t seem to make any sense. But it’s helpful to have a feel for it because that feel can relax whatever fear we may have about dying, or living for that matter. After all, if a drop of water cried out it was afraid to flow over a rock, or rise up into a cloud, would that help anything?
The colors of this world are the colors of heaven, just from the inside out. Here we see the colors, there we are them. Here we play in God’s Beauty, there we are that Beauty. Since here and there are fictions, everything’s all right already. Free Medicine! Purifying, revivifying, sanctifying, we are the Holy Light we bathe in, we are the Good News we seek.
Pouring forth, neither you nor I have a moment to waste. Facing the firing squad we smile and forgive. Even grief is a blessing. A solitary soldier comes to mop our blood and sees his reflection crying.
If a thousand Buddhas hovered in the air, you wouldn’t see anything. All the dark oceans are empty light. After all, clear space doesn’t part around us when we walk together, arm in arm by the river, confessing our love. But who are you, my love, who? Even you don’t know.
The fountain flings its water-drops all night long, and inside each one, stars are twinkling. No one sees them. In the morning, ducks swim under, taking a shower.
To follow the way that this doesn’t make sense leads beyond sense-making to Presence-glimpsing, though without imagining a thing that is present. Our Enormous Home is not a place, though every place is Home. God is not a thing, though everything is God. God does not exist because God is not something already made. God is This. Like God, we too do not exist and are not something already made.
Because we imagine that we are something that does exist, we imagine we can die. We can’t. That which does not exist cannot die. What we call God and what we call us is divine Delight, and where does Delight exist? No place. Just This!
Does that make sense?