Somehow, we must remove the notion from us of our own infallibility. It is a hindrance like no other. Somehow we can discern the faults of everyone but our own selves, because we always have a reason why this thing of ours went foul, so that we seem always to be justified. We must constantly strive to see the right in everyone else, and see the wrong in us, because the balance is always stacked the other way. Our selves will always get in the way of any selfless notion — by definitions, this must be the case. There was only ever one of us who did nothing wrong, and I think on the day of judgement, we will be surprised — shocked — by the amount and number of the ills we have rendered, the injustices we have overlooked, and all the while pointing at the mote in our brothers’ eyes, seeking all that we thought was unfair to us to be redressed, and all that which we did of the dishonorable overlooked. I do not think this will be how the Judge will look at things.
I found that when some goal was pie in the sky, an abstract fancy, it was easy for me to have faith that it would one day come to pass. But when the hour came round at last, when there was actual potential for this thing to become reality, suddenly I could find only the feathers left where angels once dwelled, there in my heart. Where did my believing go? Or is it like the muscles in exercise that they must be torn in order to gain strength? That the egg must be broken in order for us to hatch? And thus the test: to regain what we once had, that the fates stripped away, to find the believing when the reasons suddenly make no sense. This is the fire in which we are tested, until we emerge as the rarest silver, as the most angelic gold, shining like light itself. Like we were blameless.
the heart knows its own, watching for the rose that materializes in full bloom
the action is immediate, the consequences permanent
halfway to heaven the wind turns into shifting harmonies of assembled voices
i have dreamed of the music to cast me aloft in the moonlight pale
to return to earth smelling of starlight
not to lose whatever believing has given me up to the voices, forever knowing
night to ascend as dawn presses up from the deeps
There comes over some of us, sometimes, a notion that perhaps should always be shared, if one is so fortunate to experience it. It is the idea that everything is going to be all right — that somehow, beyond the reach of all mortal hopes, everything will at the end, end well. Though those who have religion have more form to these feelings, a spelled-out prophecy or some kind of formulation that actually describes how things will work out, I don’t believe one has to believe in anything to believe this. I imagine it is somewhat more easily done for those who have faith in a higher order to believe that there is a larger good that circumscribes the most terrible of tragedies, but hope is not monopolized by such faith. There shall always be those who have a kind of trust in the better side of humankind, no matter that they can only look forward to new generations to make amends for those past (and those present) and think not that some great power will create the ultimate justice. Not an impossible thing to hold.
It is, to put it in today’s parlance, the ultimate meme. We can see that it’s been put in songs more than once (Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” says it, for one; do a search for “everything’s gonna be alright” on Google, and you get more than twenty million hits). And it probably shall be put into songs as long as there are songs being written. To those who don’t feel it, perhaps have never felt it, the idea may be shrugged off as lighthearted wish-fulfillment whimsy, made by those who have no grasp of how grave the situation of the world truly is. But that it exists in such forms as the Book of Revelations, I think says differently. It is perhaps to be as in the spirit of a quote by Oscar Wilde, “The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.” That to fight the good fight is ultimately not in vain, however much the evil seems victorious. It is the idea of turning the other cheek: they cannot defeat us by their violence; we are better than that. It is a sign that says, “This way up.” Everything is going to be all right.
What if, at the end of the day, Romeo and Juliet were not meant for each other? And it was exactly this quality that made them what they were? What if “meant to be” is actually really boring, and what that really is is all the people who got together without the drama, married and had kids, who had kids, and they grew old, and died, and that was the whole story? When the entire world is against you, after dropping hint after hint, what you get is one stolen night, and then that entire world catches up to you — death is almost inevitable. Some sort of horrible tragedy, at least. But that’s Romeo & Juliet, right? There is no way it would have been anywhere near as romantic had they not both died at the end, being a hairsbreadth from getting away with the perfect crime.
Whether this means that it was true love, after all, or that it was not, just because when one thinks of true love, one’s mind immediately jumps to the concept “meant to be” — maybe I’ll leave that as an exercise for the reader. Is this an example of love’s true nature? I think not. It is an exception, and that is precisely why it is so prized as a story, as an experience. Maybe I am leaning in one direction, then. True love: if you love, truly, what else could it be? When you say, “I love you,” are you telling the truth? That’s it then. That’s true love. The nature of the world can be seen in this way, too: that the most ordinary of people can experience the most extraordinary of phenomena. For free. And I rather like that way of looking at the world.
I hear tell of a flower
that blooms in total darkness:
if light is ever shown on it,
it immediately turns to dust.
Though how it may be I have
heard but rumors, I am told of
some rare few who say they
have seen what that flower
may be. Palest white petals
that seem to be suspended
in air, so gossamer is its stalk.
These folk who claim to view
the invisible, this unique
flower: people whisper they
were born and lived in blackness
deeper than night: better to
view the mysteries of life, of
flowers only darkness may see.
Barely audible, once, in my visions I once perceived, once conceived of a very curious thing. Originally not even put into words I could hear: “the Tree of the Forgetting of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.” I cannot think that this idea has ever occurred to anyone ever before; such a thought in my reckoning would catch on in certain circles, would it not? The claim of this idea is the return to innocence, that which we lost in Eden. When we were naked, and we were not ashamed. Such fruit I imagined to be heart-shaped, and bright yellow, and of a fresh sweetness, no hint of sour at all. Almost seeming skinless. And to eat of it, I cannot think of what it might be like. Better than childhood. Wider in scope than an open sky.
Sing the song that songs cannot sing. Write the words that words cannot say. Draw what cannot be pictured, dance in ways the body cannot go. This is our true purpose in anything worth doing: to do the impossible. Can anything less be what is meant for the children of God? See how wonderful the creation of our Father, and dream that we may also do such things, when we are ready. When we know enough, when we have done enough. Our second birth is when we are born anew in Heaven, and we will there grow up to be as children of God are meant to be. Can we expect anything less of ourselves than what is love’s true potential? To do what cannot be done?
