Love gifts with one, and both. There exists this odd relationship, this mysterious mystery swimming within, that the more I become intimate with Love, and not this or that particular person or thing I could say I love, the more both the pain and joy of Intimacy, with all Its longing and fulfillment, unfold within me.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell Of saddest thought.
*Percy Bysshe Shelly
This began as a single writing, but is presented as a series. The musing was longer than anticipated. Reading it, I could not shorten it. Even in editing, more arose to be written. These musings are not theological or philosophical, more reflections meant to engage the heart, not so much the head. Yet, hopefully, they point to something that reminds you of your own experience, your own longing. Longing, indeed, comes in as many shapes as you and me. And I see the mistake of trying to negate longing in some form of salvation, liberation, or enlightenment. I sense the beauty of being fully human, which means no escape from being human.
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This morning, early, quiet, in recliner reading and meditative, the word Intimacy awakened within. Partly, due to a reading that speaks strongly of my own heart longing - a longing I thought had been silenced, buried in the past through some final embrace of a contentment meaning no-longing. Indeed, for many years I did not feel that longing. This longing awakened again, ironically, following the demise of my last parent, my dad. The resurrection of this longing was not welcome, but it moves among the living with me now, alive and caressing me with a renewed journey of humanness, a sameness with all others. The unwelcome is, again, showing itself to be a friend, even if uncomfortable one at times.
First, however, what runs through my brain about a sharing just recently. Tears arise. I am sharing with a friend of this burden of Love, of this being among others and feeling immense Love, feeling the pain of having no where to send it. Recent words from Gangaji on this Love, as well as reading again Gibran's "Love," had spoken of how this Love does not only console us, but introduces more pain into us, even crucifies us. And this Christ, how did he long? What did he feel for those close to him, a Love they could not know or reciprocate? Or know but unable to receive? Unable to return? Where comes this notion that Love is all bliss, leaving us in a contented satisfaction free of the torrid terrain of hurt?
I have come to know and accept Love is not a refuge from hurting and being hurt, from aching for connection when connection is not possible. Or maybe Love is free of all this, but does not free us, for we are not meant to be free of this humanness - not yet. Maybe, the joy of Love is in knowing we are in communion with Love, meaning we are sharing more fully, as we grow, the joy and suffering Love timelessly embraces within Itself and in communion with all Nature. Then, to draw near the Heart of Life, is to draw closer to the grace of heartache, and the suffering of grace. But it is no longer personalized, individualized, as my suffering or my joy. Yes, I have come to know a joyful suffering, and a suffering joy.
Love gifts with one, and both. There exists this odd relationship, this mysterious mystery swimming within, that the more I become intimate with Love, and not this or that particular person or thing I could say I love, the more both the pain and joy of Intimacy, with all Its longing and fulfillment, unfold within me. Yes, an opening through being opened, even as the body of Jesus was opened and poured forth water and blood - the veil torn - an opening into the Light I both see and known, and am in some way that arises from Love and returns to Love. This, so that I am not one trying to be in Love but am in Love, always have been.
This being in Love, I cannot of myself choose only the delights of Love, even as I cannot of myself choose the sufferings of Love. What happens, happens. Call this "God's will" or "Fate" or "Destiny,"or whatever. I call it simply what is. And all is consecrated, not in me, but in That in who I am. Then, how tragic, that so few know they are already in Love.
How blessed those who know Love knowing not how they know and cannot tell what they know but do.