I stand at the threshold of a new relationship with the world, where clear-seeing is not divorced from fantasy. As the lamp in the cavern of my heart begins to glow, and vast new landscapes unfurl before my eyes, I feel a warmth, an un-ending opening, in which reality and story merge.
This is divine duality.
Real and unreal, form and formless, are no longer concepts – polarities arising within The Real – they are The Real itSelf.
Because She cannot be denied – this life-blood of existence – the creator, the destroyer, the great web weaver. She beats on silent drums in the sky, and exhales cool breezes that turn the pages of our stories.
I see now clearly that no thought is real, and yet not one need be shot down. Like butterflies through my Being they build great castles through the mountain of my mind, castles made of clay that can be moulded and fashioned, castles made of sand that can be blown down or left to topple …
The cosmos breathes. It plays.
Its relative reality can be realised, embodied. It functions as both stepping stone and bridge and yet destination in and of itself. Tantra knows this. It expounds this. Every awakened Heart sings this song. No stone, no leaf, no ladybird can be excluded from this. Indeed, shamanic, pagan, and occult paths lead through this forest of Living Knowledge.
It is wild, an untamed assault on the senses that threatens clarity every step of the way, for where identity and desire co-exist there is the potential to fall prey to her many traps and tricks. She wants you for herself, she wants you absorbed without reason, she tantalises your senses from all directions. Oh to surrender to her is to win the great battle – but resist or believe her and you’ll drown in confusion.
The web may be sticky, and your fight will entangle you more, but to fall straight through this make-believe dance – to confirm its ephemeral reality through your dropping – is where true enjoyment meets illusion. Transcendence is a road that leads straight to clear-seeing – for She is not real – but why not meet with her depths, for her beauty is that which makes death harder and sweeter.
To love her with abandon, to throw stars into the sky for her, to paint life stories on her temple walls; but to see with a glint in your eye, that both artist and painting are transient, and that death is what animates all.
To be a connoisseur of the senses without becoming their slave. To enjoy pleasure while bending it with your gaze – the gaze that penetrates it to its empty core, unfolding it like a blooming flower, and then watching it wilt and die – its pollen scattered, with no trace left, except a warm aftertaste of joy, and the deep recognition that there is peace in the emptiness, peace in death.
To give oneself completely to the fullness, to realise its every nuance, detail and thread. To journey endlessly into its folds and creases, to know that there is resolve in this, that no stone can be left unturned, and yet to give oneself over to the wearing away of every weave, and to know that in this living there is an unpicking that dissolves everything that is touched.
Her transience is eternal. Endlessly she crashes against the shore of Truth before disappearing back into the ocean of Awareness. She is the undefinable wave. The wave that may be caught only fleetingly. And yet, in her illusive nature, lie secrets waiting to be discovered and mysteries that cannot be explained.
Her solidity can be known. It can be dug and tunnelled and shaped. It can be raked and sown and harvested. Don’t die before planting. Drop seeds of delight and watch them sprout. Grow with them, dance with them, then throw them to her flames. Don’t transcend without descending. Bring life into being. Bloom, laugh, cry. Chase every whim and dream, only to watch it falter and fall, deeply, into her bottomless pit.
She waits for your tongue. The tongue that will taste her, envelop her in its ecstasy and merge with her in bliss. Your potential is her purpose, your dissolve her destination. She coaxes you from all directions, and when you dare, in your spiritual arrogance, to think you can escape her, she pricks you hard and burns you harder.
Her grace is fierce. Her fire is fatal. You cannot escape her dance. You cannot run from her flames. But you can hide – into the dark recesses of your psyche you can take shade from her blinding light.
Or, in your allegiance with division, you can gaze silently at her, observing her, enjoying her. From the heights of clarity, you can engage her, even dance with her, but your dance will be half-hearted, your embrace will be the kind that leaves onlookers dissatisfied, wanting more. An insidious stiffness will run through your veins, your blood will flow but will never over-flow. Your breath will never reach its destination, always falling short, filling but never fulfilling.
