Our Own False Light


Addiction to the whirling often induced by love, but which is not love. And to your own understanding and perception of things, which is so limited – Let go of all of it . Truly, truly, it is really just a clinging to your own false light.

Step out over the edge of the precipice and into the Mystery – Behold! You are still walking…

Abide humbly in the Silence – Behold! It is a really a chorus of angels…

And above all, allow the pain to overwhelm you at times, swallow you whole, like the whale. God’s holy ones are precisely those who abandon themselves to this great process, this great, eternal working. They relinquish themselves up to ever greater, ever wider, ebbs and flows, falling in love, even, with the stretching, the hollowing out, the dying and the rising again.

The “old man” in us always wants to contain the pain, hoping (vainly) that in so doing we will not have to die. But what we are invited to is precisely to die – to relinquish, not to contain. And so remember: “All manner of things shall be well, all manner of things shall be well.” This is the madness of the Peace to which we are called, and it takes root it in the depths of our being in proportion to the depths of our darkness, and uncertainty.     


“And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day”

Jacob Wrestling-1Convinced
arrival would one day 
receive him in
forerooms plush 
with futility, strain,
defeat – 
the like

Or (better yet): that he would catch
it prowling the gloaming tall-grass 
beyond the dark eyes
of women, hidden there,
and indenominate

Or (better still): wrest it
straight from cold, 

Gazing up now
into the swaying branches
of the trees: how they
in the morning emptiness
that is our only
Claim, our sole
Knowing that, ineluctably,
we are all seeds strewn
widely, stars
set burning
across the
sweeping canvas:

Never touching



Before the steady four wheels
Of cradlebound infancy
Could become in him adolescence’s
Fledgeling, jump-start
Two, sorrow made him to know,
In the secret dwellings of his heart,
The “inconsolable origin of all tears.”

In other children, youth flourished and
Grew strong, like young cedar,
And out of their propitious lips
A summer song would issue, limpid and flowing;
And with palms thrust radiantly upwards towards the sky
(as if to offer up to God innocence’s abundant first-fruits),
They would drink copiously of the sunny breezes
(as if to, in turn, partake of the chalice
of His glory and happily, guilelessly, say, “Amen”)…

– And meanwhile, he would shudder in his room at night,
Alone, enfolded
In the yawning weft
Of Sorrow’s shadowy mantle.


Lord, you made me to be without a home
Where all the others seemed to find one;
Turned my blossoming lea into a barren landscape
Riddled, as after a fire, with the smoldering,
Broken bramble of heart-scraps,
Upon which ashes would fall, and still fall
Softly, silently, cold – the fallout of dreams…

All those long, twilight hours at Father’s,
Where with door closed Waiting
Would stretch wide and thin
– Like the growing shadows –
And the Abyss would seem to open up,
Press in upon me, and
Brush up against my face, lightly…

What were they, then? Lord,

Are you listening?

I will answer: Training days,
Training days of longing and lack,
Where longing grew strong, and lack,
To the full stature of manhood

And now a man I am become indeed:

In place of a warm hearth somewhere,
I make my home upon the stillborn plane,
wandering beneath the silent firmament,

The weight of a thousand, thousand years
Flickers dimly, like ancient stars,
Out these obsidian eyes

To Do One Thing


To do one thing:

To find the courage
To wake up in the morning,
Climb out of bed
And make coffee;
To brush one’s teeth because it is necessary;
To go about what one does,
Turning the compost over,
Pulling weeds from the garden,
And planting for next season’s harvest…
– All this,
And to be able to abide
In the thin space between peace
And terror,
Where there is no one,
No one but you and your Creator
Over the widening chasm
That is your life