Into hallowed quietude on Hallowe’en eve,
Air swollen with silence…
And river sounds…and breeze,
Twitters, caws… wings and thoughts
Animate the scene,
Which ever sinks toward stillness,
solidity and peace.
Guadalupe stands in white
And tranquil certainty,
Gazing humbly toward her heart,
A river full and free
of longing and belonging both
dissolved in Agape.
There is no gate. I enter freely. The lady in white does not look up to greet me. But buried deep inside is a voice that still dares to insist I am welcome.
I walk on the grounds, enveloped in silence and in solitude, even as I gaze upon long rows of windows made for many a man to look through. And, ah, there is one man. A bearded one in white habit and hood, pale as his vestments, stands looking down from his second story window. I cannot see his face, but I smile in its direction, offering the whitest thing I wear today; a smile of kinship and mischief, with a hint of pretense painting over where insecurity still lives. A smile that lays claim to the heart we share, shining through the echoes of a false history swathing me in the myth of unwelcome.
As I stand overlooking the wetlands and hills, with birdsong and breeze and sun alive all around me, apple tree still laden with trophies of its purpose served, why does someone in here persistently assume that all here have more purpose and belonging than I? That is the girdle of separation consciousness; the tattoo of original sin. It colors the flesh, casts shadow on the soul within, but does not touch the spirit, as our lady’s white habit reminds us.
I walk toward the apple tree and realize that if someone handed me a ladder and asked me to pick the apples, my tiredness would flee and in would rush the relief and animation, the safety and shakti, of Purpose. Instantly I would Belong here. I would be fed and flowing with the Life from which a moment before I had felt distinct, an interloper waiting to be found (and cast) out.
Why, I wonder, after all the Love I have seen, do these echoes of past wounds, of lies, still haunt me, when I know there is no one here forbidding my presence, my existence?
Guadalupe gazes down toward her heart against which she lightly holds a Merkaba star; one ray is broken off, and yet a star it still is, in my mind and in Her Heart.
As a way to move the love around, I walk up to the apple tree and greet and praise it for its perfect work. I confess to it lightly that I wish I could apple (verb) so effortlessly as it does, that my purpose was so clear. I feel my mind dilate and remind me that purpose is not a concept or a doing, but a Being, and Being is a hand held open in water, holding on to no meaning. I gaze then at the Lady in white some distance away and know I belong as Alive Mind, deep blue soul, hollowed out for the river of Being, all the colors floating by upon it before my eyes, ever down stream, changed, in ways I cannot know, by my witness.