Refuge

I see Jesus in the distance, his arm and hand outstretched.

I move towards him. He tells me to sit next to him, on a bench in the park by three trees. The grass is lush and spectacularly, green. I dare not look at him, but his gaze and silence reach for me and so, I turn my head to the right.

"What is it?", he asks. "Nothing, my Lord. Nothing." "Your eyes tell otherwise. You know you can't hide from me. Why would you want to? I accept you." In my quietness and downward pose, I thank him, softly, tenderly. He knows I love him dearly.

I feel misunderstood. I feel voiceless. I feel that it is a challenge that I will forever find difficult to overcome. I want to be seen, to be truly accepted, to be revered, to be treasured.

Then, the tears come and my sound is deep. He touches my hair, then takes a tear drop with his finger and places it on his cheek. I am speechless. My tears stop. I reach for his face and take my thumb and wipe away my tear. He says, "No need for that. I will help carry the burden."

I look for you in man. I've been looking for you my entire life. I'm sorry, but, I cannot see. Perhaps, he does not exist...here, that is...here. In my quest, there are only silhouettes, only dreams, and visions of what is not...here.

I look up and see the stars. Stars! I have forgotten that they are stars. We have forgotten what we are looking at! Poets and philosophers, musicians and writers, they grab hold of a thing and they delve into it, wholeheartedly. I want to be delved into, wholeheartedly. Who will reach my depths? Who will even want to?

I want you to be enough. But, I was born so that I would see what I am supposed to see. Let me be the instrument that you choose to express yourself, through. I bow my head to you. I bow my head. But, please don't ask me to bow to man. I cannot. I will not. He is not worthy. He is broken. He is fallible. He, no matter what strength he draws upon, will be ruled by his ego. Why should that be so?

How can we live up to any ideal? If too ideal, one is rendered a hopeless romantic. If not ideal enough, a cynic and a pessimist.

Do you value me, my Lord? I aim to attract what you are but, I fail...not miserably...but, I fail, nonetheless. And you know that I am not perfect, that I am flawed...so, so flawed...and you tell me, that they're precisely why you love me, more.

You say to me, "Go where you see my face. Embrace the space where I reside." And I have. Have I not? Tell me, my Lord. Have I not? You smile. You show me that my intuition is sharp, that it is my guiding light, that where there is light, there you are. And I place my faith in this, because it is the only thing that is truly, truly, real...the only thing that speaks to my heart, directly.

You lurk in the shadows, too. You lurk in places I have yet to go to, places I am, currently, blind to. But, you are patient. You make no demands, because you understand my heart. You understand the depth of my cup.

I offer you my cup. Drink from it, the way I drink from yours. Let my well be replenished because I am running on empty. I am thirsty. You're the only one I will ever look up to.

And then you take me by surprise when you tell me to stand and you remain on your knees. I don't understand. What do you want me to see? To comprehend? You bow your head in humility and I sob because it makes no sense to me...why you would bow to me? And you say, "I bow to all that is true and beautiful in you...all that is false and ugly in you."

I reach for your chin and you grab hold of my hand. "I bow to the goddess in you. Accept this and you shall never suffer, again. You have my word. You will not find a resting place in man, only comfort, and it shall be temporary, at best. I am your refuge."

The Two Gardens

I sit in the center of this garden. The green grass is lush and shiny. I feel a breeze caress my cheek. I'm comfortable. Yet, I am lacking. What am I lacking?

The rose bush is huge with thorns in hidden places. How her sight and scent lures and entices only to prick you when your approach is too eager, aggressive and without care. I am reminded of myself. My skin is soft, my hair, silky. If you come too close and too fast, you'll wish you hadn't.

I'm not alone, here. I used to think that I was. In the silence, I can hear the music of the spheres, of my spheres, peaks and valleys. I want to be understood, to be accepted, to...be. I hear a voice, a familiar one, being carried on the wind, moving towards me. I'm too busy looking at the spilled cups to appreciate the ones I have standing.

That's when I notice another garden, in my mind's eye. There, the grass is lush, too, the rose bushes, grand and majestic. But, there is an unusual tiny flower tucked away in the corner of the earth. I'm attracted to this little flower, this lonely flower that sits quietly, and asks for nothing. I bring focus to it. I imagine what it would be like to go to it, to tend to it, to marvel at its texture between my fingers.

I ought to accept where I am, because here is all there is.

Where does change come in? When is it necessary? To get on another trajectory? When is a state of dissatisfaction a true sign to move instead of a reflection of a resistance to what is?

This flower, that's caught my attention, is humble. It's unique. It's beautiful. It's tender. And I'm a feeler and so, I want to give to it, water it, love it. It's not enough to tend to it in my mind's eye. I wish to be near it.

True, I can love from afar. I can love everything and nothing. There is here and here is there. As above, so below. As inside, so outside. That way, the flower is always close...only a thought away.

Persian Rugs & Wooden Floors

I wanted him to love me the way I love Jesus. But, he just wanted in my pants. Should I be flattered? Because man wanted in my pants? I didn't want to go back there, come back here, to this and that space. My arms reached for the divine. My legs moved towards the sacred. My head, with eyes closed, longed to be taken. But, he just wanted in my pants.

I looked up at the clock, distracted by the sound of the hands clicking. It wasn't a distraction, though. It carried me towards a reality, a realization, a sudden understanding. Man and the Divine are not one. But, he thinks he is...connected. No, he is fragmented.

I am fragmented. There are pieces I have yet to retrieve, scattered along persian rugs and wooden floors, church halls and pews, front doors and kitchens. Even the music can't cradle me, can't save me, can't make me whole, not until I see, I see what I am.

He taught me how to dance which helped me learn how to speak the language of the angels, how to open my heart, but not how to manage the overflowing cup. Who will help me with this cup, which is greater than I?

I grabbed the sword...because he wanted in my pants and Jesus watched. Whether there or here, I am just woman. I belong to man. I am virgin and I am whore, nothing in between, and never at the same time, because man won't have it.

I choose Jesus over man every time because Jesus is not in man or is it that man is not in Jesus? I am reduced to sex. I am reduced to body. My feelings and thoughts don't have a say where they ought to, in the presence of my savior. But, he...he who opened my eyes, he who originally, gave...only took away.

When I was vulnerable in front of Jesus, I was only really vulnerable in front of man...he who only wanted in my pants. He had no interest in my mind, no interest in my heart, no interest in...me.

I'm supposed to remember how forgiveness can transform, how love can turn a caterpillar into a butterfly, how the sacred can unite. Today, I wish to forget because I remember the stench of disillusionment.

And in this moment, I persist to matter. Right now, I am, and he was never in my pants.

In My Heart, Only...

I'm tired of this guilt. I'm tired of this shame. I want to overcome these negative emotions by allowing them to serve me, by looking at them straight in the face and recognizing them for what they are...not my enemies, but my friends, my teachers...so that I can release and let them go, once and for all.

I am guilty.
In my heart, only.
There, I have sinned.
A thousand times, I have betrayed.

Will I be forgiven?

Why am I asking to be redeemed and for what, exactly?

For loving?

How is Love a sin?

I loved without action.
My love was never a verb.
I loved without betrayal.
I know my place, my lot.
My love was contained.
It was repressed.
It was expressionless.
It was punished.
It was suffocated.

For breathing?

It wasn't even my love.
It didn't belong to me at all.
It came from above and moved below.

How can I be guilty of anything?

I just loved.
I loved a limitless love.
But, I didn't love a limitless love. Did I?
I got in the way.
And I had to.
Because it was the right thing to do.
Because I am honorable.

I was just a vessel.
I was guilty for loving?
How can guilt and love exist simultaneously?
One belongs to the ego, the other, to essence.

In the world of the material,
Love is reduced to shame
because here,
I am Grace,
I am woman.
I am not "I."

Here, I belong to an other.
Here, I am sinner.
Here, I am whore.
Because I loved?
Because my eye wandered, foolishly?
Because I was caught off guard?
Because I was attracted to what I thought was light?

Love is not quantitative.
It is not linear.
It is fluid.
It cannot be measured.
How can fluid be contained when there aren't any barriers?

May I ask for forgiveness,
NOT for having loved,
but for feeling guilt when there was no need to.

The Young High Priestess

She kneels down before him. She feels so desperate that he can sense how committed she is to transform this weakness. The light reaches for her through a crack in the door and settles upon the right side of her body. She is distracted now by this comfort. He clears his throat to draw her attention. He does not speak but she can hear him in her head. If he would only speak to her heart. But he won't. He hears her in his heart but she does not rest there. He goes out of his way to ensure she is pulled downward.

He says her clothing is too thick. He cannot make out the contours of her body. He tempts her, silently, at every turn. With him it is no use. She can see the wall form before her eyes and no matter how she tries, it cannot be deconstructed. The wall and the mirror are synonymous. She sees clearly their dynamic.

"Let me see you," he whispers. She tells him, "Not without my sword." He tells her to stand and she does so, with presence. He is not pleased with her. He doesn't realize how much power he's thrown her way. He tells her to meet with him at his chamber. She asks for the garden instead. But this does not satisfy him so the chamber it is. "Wear something light," he insists.

The door is open when she arrives. It is a beautiful room with several windows along the sides, sheer curtains and assorted tapestry on the walls, a rug, the most magnificent rug she has ever seen and a bed made for a King and Queen. And she is a Queen but he is not worthy to be her King. She takes a peek outside. The landscape is breathless. The sun is setting on the horizon. She and God share a moment. She gives praise for her blessings.

The cloak she wears feels right. It is royal blue and made of velvet. She does not wish to be seen so uses her long black hair to cover the sides of her face. The hood now is not useful or appropriate here. She is nervous in her waiting but poised in her demeanor. She must not give too much away. That would be perilous in this space, in this room, behind closed doors...with him.

He enters and draws close with sword in hand. "It is not for you to give," she answers. "I have offended thee, I see." He places the sword upon the mantle by the fireplace, something she had failed to notice when she first entered the room. How could she have missed the fireplace? How she longs for that warmth and the sound of the crackling wood as it burns. How she longs for that light, those orange flames that purify her. How she longs to be embraced by this element in all its glory.

He unties her cloak and places it upon a chair. She feels the heat rise in her and in him as he walks away. He draws near. She takes a step back. "Why do you run from me?" She answers, "Because you chase me." He smiles. She dislikes that he knows she yearns for him.

What can she do? The chemistry is larger than themselves. It's Art, as Crowley called it. Two wholes coming together and creating another element entirely. To her, in the silent world of the sacred, he is tender and true. Out there, he is an ass and so very small. She is torn between these two pillars of existence. She must have both feet in but not favor one world over the other, not become attached to either, must learn to live in the space between them, where there is balance, where one is unaffected. But this is harder than she imagined, than she could have ever imagined.

She wants to take her clothes off but she resists. She knows his gaze and touch would reach and awaken a place that has otherwise been inaccessible and dormant in her. The thought alone weighs heavily and a stirring begins. She wants the real, not the transient. She wants to wake up the next morning and know that he is near, not wonder whether he will receive her the day after and the day after that and so on. He keeps her a secret and hidden like she's a High Priestess he needs to protect and guard. A High Priestess needs no protection.

And she is honoured to be revered, to be wanted, to be dreamed of. She feels the phases of the moon press upon her, of this cycle specifically, of this pull towards him. These waters runs deep. And he is just "man." The weight of this sensuality pulls her downward when she knows it would serve her better to move upwards towards the heavens, away from him and his attachment to the earth.

Lack of Essence?

I tended to him because I looked up to him. He was my "guide", my spiritual "mentor." I don't regret any of the things I've done. My actions stemmed from my heart, which grows larger each day. I asked for nothing in return. To give was its own reward.

It was a mistake that I put him up on a pedestal. This is true. In many ways, I was so much farther along than I could have gathered at first. I was a living example of the Work, of what Mr. Gurdjieff spoke about. When I was with my guide, I was with that part of him which Mr. Gurdjieff called "essence." I tried to access this in him at all times. It was a relentless pursuit of mine. I looked for it in his eyes, his voice, his movements, and his words.

Over time, it became more difficult to connect with this. Sometimes, I came to doubt whether I had ever come into contact with this "thing" to begin with. This is when the tears first came, at the onset of this realization, that perhaps I was looking for something that simply wasn't there, that I had been wanting to transform something false into a truth and the futility of this had become so unbearable.

I would have had to admit that I was a fool, that I was stupid, that I had allowed myself to be mislead...well, by myself, in spite of my intuition and dreams that kept telling me something was not right, that all was not what it seemed.

But how? He was my "guide." I wanted him to be that for me and yet I found myself "helping" him. I saw that in myself, this tendency to want to "tend" to him, to show him there was another way he ought to conduct himself, another way he ought to spread the message, another way he could do things, or lead his life along this path. I wanted this because I believed in him, in that some "thing" I clung on to as hard and for as long as I could.

But I am not his wife, not his lover, not really his friend, not his sister, or coworker. I am just a woman in the Work who happened to be in a group, who also happened to volunteer her time to helping herself help him grow and maintain a group. I succeeded in helping with this even though the outcome may suggest otherwise.

I am not to blame for trusting him, for being open and true, for being genuine and sincere. I am not to blame for being honourable. Nonetheless, I cannot make excuses for his behaviour especially when he uses terms in the Work to justify why he is who he is. That kind of hypocrisy simply doesn't sit well with me. As soon as the impression comes, I get a taste of it, its vibration and quality. I cannot escape the truth. I only pretended not to "hear" what was speaking to me loud and clear, with intent and fervor. If anything, I had allowed my heart to take over at the expense of my Self. And because I ignored the messages, I have had to pay a price. And rightfully so.

Conversation

Jesus and I sit around the table, a rectangular wooden table that seats up to eight people. It's cold outside. The light emanating from the lamps is warm and soft. There's no where I'd rather be than here alone with my Beloved. But we're not alone.

"You are angry with me?" I understand why he asks. I cannot hide anything from him. He welcomes it all like the real ones do...no hassles, no judgment, only compassion and love. I decorate a bowl with some fruit and place it in the center of our space together. "I do not wish to speak. You already see what resides in my heart."

"True, but I also see your need to share with me. And since I am here, you must use me." I sit and pat down my dress, gently grab hold of the table cloth before me and feel the fabric between my fingers, reminds me of my Mother. "I don't understand, Jesus. I don't understand. If I had been alive during your time, I would have held you in my arms. I would have wiped away the blood from your face, your arms, your hands. I would have stayed with you. Like a good woman, a true woman."

"I don't understand my Lord, how some can walk in your name and be so deceitful, how they can twist the truth to serve themselves, how they can say one thing and do the opposite. Help me understand this hypocrisy. I know we all make mistakes. I know we are not perfect. I know we have much to live up to, to work towards. I know there is much to forgive...but..."

"But? You can be open with me."

"I will not be fooled again. The devil can tempt me all he wants. He will fail."