Your hand opens and closes, opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralysed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds’ wings.
Nothing I say can explain to you divine love. Yet all of creation cannot seem to stop talking about it.
Soul receives from soul that knowledge, therefore, not by book, nor from tongue. If knowledge of mysteries comes after emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.
At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face against mine. Breathe into me. Close the language - door and open the love - window. The moon won’t use the door, only the window.
