The trill of a Redwind blackbird outside the window. The slow spread of the clouds, high, white, moving at the erotic speed of a snail, drawing across the sky their delicious parade of slowness.
The amaryllis sits extended and spread in absolute stillness quiet quiet quiet, everything is so incredibly quiet. The fresh viburnum tips green, sun shining though their translucent skin, the same quiet turned towards the air and sweep of sky. Listening, being.
The window sash locks, poised, at attention, transfixed by the sky. All the same. Sitting. Listening. Brimming.
What is devotion? Does devotion have a self? A future? A past? A concept to which it gives itself?
No. I think not. I look, and that is not what I see. The clouds, the amaryllis, the window sash locks, the viburnum, they show something else.
I see stillness. I see glory. I see hearts rend open forever, here. I see devotion with no self, no future, no concept to give itself to.
By their grace, their example, by them I move into a sweeter understanding of myself. By their lead I am shown, I am ushered.
I am that. You are too. Find it.
I am the voice in my head.
I am the voice asking this, yes? Is that true?
Pointing inward, the voice coalesces, solidifying unto itself.
The voice is mute, and I listen beyond.
I am the spread of spring under the morning frost.
the curve of grapevine shimmering in ecstatic worship
the joy boom of stillness behind it all
the molten drops of sun dripping though viburnum petals,
branches strewn in glory
I am the spread of heart, entwined in the morning.
Am I this voice, here, asking this question?
The voice is mute and I listen beyond.
So good. Did you ever open up your ears to the night sounds and tap into a joy so vast that only the fringe of it could be taken in? Try it, wherever you are. Perk up your ears as though you are listening to something very far away, something you almost can't hear.
Does source want to speak though me? Night sounds. Quiet sounds. Sounds echoed from the edge of joy in childhood, or was it a dream? Into something so indescribably joyful and alive that a brush with it is enough to fuel a lifetime.
Sink into it. Open to it. Perk your ears up in the quiet night and listen. Stay there. Listen. Listen to the furthest away noises, and then listen beyond them. What is there? Listen. Don't stop.
Suddenly a melting happens and the night becomes you. You are child of the Ancient. You are of it. Listen. Do not be afraid. Listen. The buzz of the night bugs becomes sacred. The trucks passing in the dark tremor you with love.
Perk up the flesh of your ears, listen. Listen to the the darkest distant where thrills of life call you home. Listen. To the overreaching call of God. A chasm opens thoughout your being and a joy terrible and wild sweeps by.
The deepest longing of your heart is met and compounded and added a thousandfold. It's true. The glimpses in dreams, the wafting remembrances of childhood are real, so real.
Listen. Do it again. Perk up your ears and invite them out out out.
Do you speak absolute? I am the boom beneath it all. Quieter than quiet.
Do you speak absolute?
Sweetheart, my heart, rest now.