Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own logical solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing
their colored clothes; caps and bells.
once more the quiet mystery
is present to
me, the throng’s clamor
recedes; the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it.
I don’t know about you, but I do miss the mystery the poet describes above. What a miracle, gift and blessing simply to be!
An authentic spiritual path, it has been written, does not take us away from the world, our bodies and these lives we live day by day. I am leery of any spiritual teaching that advises escaping or in some way “transcending” my humanity, or the nitty gritty of this world.
Rather, our lives, the here-and-now is exactly where we are called to find the holy , the real, the true. What a mystery, what a gift, what a blessing!