I have lots of burning desires scattered throughout my space, thrown off like tiny suns from a central, spinning core of white-hot being.
Each point of light generates its own universe and all events thereof; but it is to the Matrix Mysteria I return again and again, trailing my universes behind me. I go there for the simple reason that, within It, I experience the only true love I know--a wholeness, peace and joy so profound that it moves everything.
I go there because I must, because Maria is nothing but a speck of appearing and disappearing light on a liquid surface, thrown out in a dream and withdrawn to the heart of the Only in a series of rhythmic cycles (of which this physical heartbeat is a mere shadow).
I don't know why, with my verbal language.
But I know in some pre-and-post verbal way, the way of the eternal womb and the single-minded cell of creation, the way of the seasons of this life, all life, underneath the myth of the histories of both.
There is some kind of fire which individuates and unites. I carry it, and it seems to be my destiny to attempt to speak of it with mouth sealed shut and hands tied behind my back. I say this because there is simply no way I can satisfactorily communicate its implications. My human self feels the point of it all, the profound Being which cannot be created by any society or technology or mind--but can only be embodied.
This embodiment is, of course, completely natural, in the sense that it can be nothing else, and need not be "manipulated" into existence. In short, this itch I feel to pick up the nearest troubled person and deposit him or her in that vast and burning love is unnecessary--because the "trouble" is that same love in action. The wounding, the seeking to heal, the patient and the healer--all facets of a dynamic awareness. There is nothing I need to do. Except honor these universes of desire, which is how it all moves.
So as crazy-painful-blissful as this may be, I am a servant to this love. Shifting into it is not necessarily my decision. I can call it a conscious act, but all of history and all futures must align just so to enable this woman to feel every green and springy step under the trees, to find both an ache and beauty in a fallen nest and its broken, speckled egg, and to contemplate the full extent of the body and the gateways of Being.
Underneath the caring and not-caring, the seeking to pointless ends, lies a final wail which even now is being answered--she has never abandoned you, not once. She sings lullabies and songs of waking. If I open my mouth, the sounds of the river come out, or the shriek of an osprey.