when my love
for the wondrous world grows dull
and the world stops stopping
at the sill of my senses
my wild naked knowing
that where I find myself
is a place I’ve outgrown
my pool has become safe
and whatever it is in this blood
that drives me upstream
will not take no for an answer:
I have to go
. . .
I will gasp in a new atmosphere
I will feed on unfamiliar fodder
I will ignore the old mating calls
. . .
what’s clear is this: on the far side
of comfort, habitude and certainty
and creativity is life’s unknowable agenda
“Thy Will Be Done”
unnameable, unknowable, immeasurable,
omnipresent, intelligence aka Life
incomprehensible, creative movement:
unfolding/enfolding increasingly exquisite Order
is happening and cannot be adjusted or avoided
“Thy will be done.”
I’ve been thinking about this little cluster of words lately. Taken in the Biblical sense it no longer makes much sense, for “Thy” presumes the presence of a God-power (modeled on human attributes, naturally) who has designs on the life of the supplicant. Like all other godly notions, “Thy” is just a projection of mental fantasy. And “… will be done” presumes the existence of a temporal future. But all dimensions of time – including space, are also projections. That’s what intellect tells me. But then there’s the problem of Grace.
Maybe the magical movement I conceptualize as Grace is what the ancient Biblical scribes called God. Maybe the God notion was anthropomorphized over time and set in stone as an object that wielded Grace.
When the echoes murmur about “giving Grace space” perhaps the essence is not so different from the surrender implied in “Thy will be done.” But if I say “Thy will be done” I don’t refer to an object of any kind. Neither ‘Thy’ nor ‘will’ are objects but dynamics. Perhaps we could say “Will is happening” but this still implies the existence of some kind of pre-planned divine choreography. Which is all very well, but pretty pointless because there’s no way the immensity of IT would ever be accessible to our small minds.
It’s all good grist for the mind-mill. Breathing in and breathing out, the mill grinds to a halt. Aaahhhhh…
IT graces the spacious silence. Everything sensed, conceived, imagined, is inescapably IT.
“IT, happening!” sums up the existence story pretty nicely for me these days.