Nay!  When the earth is pounded to powder,  
And thy Lord cometh, and His angels, rank upon rank,

And Hell, that Day, is brought face to face --  
on that Day, man will remember,  
but how will that remembrance profit him?

He will say: "Ah!  
Would that I had sent forth good deeds for this, my Future Life!"

For, that Day, His Chastisement will be such as none else can inflict,  
And His bonds will be such as none other can bind.

Yet to the righteous soul will be said:

O thou soul who art well assured,  
Return to thy Lord, well-pleased, and pleasing unto Him.

Enter thou among My servants,  
And enter thou My paradise.[^1]

Many people that I know would shy away from ever attributing the end of this quotation to themselves. And this brings up a certain point, which I am not sure stems from scripture: that to a certain extent we believe we are abhorrent to God, and worthy of destruction.

In the sense of pure justice, we know that the Qu’rán says, “Should God punish men for their perverse doings, He would not leave on earth a moving thing! But to an appointed term doth He respite them…”16

Yet we are not held accountable to pure justice. This is evidenced by the following:

Do Thou graciously forgive me for the things that I have wrought in Thy holy presence, and look not upon me with the glance of justice, but rather deliver me through Thy grace, treat me with Thy mercy and deal with me according to Thy bountiful favours, as is worthy of Thy glory.17

If we were doomed to a full culpability for our actions, we could never hope for grace, such as the Báb implores in the above prayer. Therefore, since “He is in truth the Omnipotent, the All-Powerful, He Who is wont to answer the call of men;”18 I imagine our focus should not be to dwell on the precepts of justice, but to ask for mercy.

Consider a parent: how willing they are to overlook every fault in a child, and to focus on and develop whatever good qualities may begin to appear. They found all their expectations in the hope that this good quality will develop, rather than deploring the fact of the bad. In fact, the bad may be completely forgiving, and even written off as childish ignorance, if only the good will prevail in adulthood.

Why is it that we cannot say to ourselves that we are “well-pleased, and pleasing unto Him”? Perhaps we cannot know this. But doesn’t this also mean that we cannot honestly know whether or not we are displeasing? God has not sent destruction upon us, and the events of our lives are constantly seen as improving us and helping us to become better. Yet, if we look down upon ourselves, or castigate our past actions, then aren’t we presuming to know the feelings of God? We have no knowledge of His mind; at best, we should leave that subject alone.

So this underlying feeling many of us have imbibed during our upbringing – that we are constantly displeasing to our Creator – seems now ludicrous. There are several factors that I believe relate to this:

None of us acts from malice, except for an extreme few. Malice means to commit evil, in the full knowledge of, and desire to, act against the good. How often have we ever been cruel or hurtful, and then exulted in the cruelty itself? When we are angry, usually this stems from a feeling of justification, not from a lust for hatred.

We judge ourselves too harshly if we think that we are evil to that degree. Malice is a soul-destroying thing19, and I’m not sure many people could even tolerate it without some sort of breakdown.

So, considering that we are rarely so evil as this, it must mean that we are to some extent ignorant when we act wrongly: we are unaware of the significance of our actions, or what they imply. This is evidenced by the fact that as we grow older, we often look back at our lives and realize how foolish we had been a different points in time. The discrepancy here is not one of goodness, but of maturity.

There is no reason to believe that we are not pleasing to our Creator; merely the fact that we are alive, and appreciative of His gifts, must account for something. If we go back to the analogy of the parent, just think how pleased a parent would be if his or her child expressed their joy at being alive. In that moment, it would not matter what they had done, or who they had become; the mere fact of their gratitude could inspire forgetfulness in even some of the most difficult cases. True, the past must be reckoned with, but in the sense of that parent’s relationship to the child’s being, rather than their behavior, we might say that a parent’s love is a hard thing to destroy – sometimes even in the face of malice.

Why, then, would we ever imagine that God is waiting, ready to condemn us? All of us here on earth are like children. Whenever I read the following biblical quotation, it makes me think that our task here on earth is more to realize who we truly are (both individually, and as a species), rather than to achieve some particular feat of glory:

At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, and said, “Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”20

Our striving is what is productive of our advancement, so that the fruit of our labors is not solely outward conquest. Similarly, if we strive, but do not completely fulfill the picture of a glorious result, yet it cannot be called worthless.

Is not the object of every Revelation to effect a transformation in the whole character of mankind, a transformation that shall manifest itself, both outwardly and inwardly, that shall affect both its inner life and external conditions? For if the character of mankind be not changed, the futility of God’s universal Manifestations would be apparent.21

Further, it often happens that a more subtle thing, even though it may not produce an immediate result, will effect a change in our soul which might ultimately yield very great results. Plato writes:

I am amused, I said, at your fear of the world, which makes you guard against the appearance of insisting upon useless studies; and I quite admit the difficulty of believing that in every man there is an eye of the soul which, when by other pursuits lost and dimmed, is by these purified and re-illumined; and is more precious far than ten thousand bodily eyes, for by it alone is truth seen…22

The reason I bring this up is to attack the idea that we should constantly berate ourselves for not playing an active part in the world in the way that others imagine the word “activity” to imply. No one can judge the effects of our actions, unless he possess a truly timeless vision23. What appears to have an effect today may dry up and whither away, while another thing, far more subtle and quiet, may actually achieve the real result.

Only simple and quiet words will ripen of themselves. For a whirlwind does not last a whole morning, nor does a sudden shower last a whole day.

Who is their author? Heaven-and-Earth! Even Heaven-and-Earth cannot make such violent things last long; How much truer is it of the rash endeavors of men?24

Society holds up to us a certain ideal of “success” and achievement. And we measure ourselves by this ideal, accepting blindly what they in turn accepted blindly, from parents who may have never questioned the meaning of this success.

At the present day, we evaluate our activities according to the plans and purposes of the Cause of God. Somehow, duty has lost the sense of glory that usually accompanies it when speaking of a great cause; and instead, it has become a burdensome thing to fill us with grief at our own lack of accomplishment.

Though, I am not writing this to dissuade people from action. But we must come to terms with what we feel success to be: with the fact that we cannot rely on our own sense of God’s evaluation of our success, and that sometimes, the result of an action may be far-distanced from its beginning. If we can escape from this destructive notion of being hurried continually toward some external goal, perhaps we might rediscover that part of ourselves which God loved at the time of our creation25, and which I believe He will always love. And then, warmed by the sunlight embrace of that realization, relaxed such that we become as deep pools of water, which our friends must wade through to reach us, other people – the non-Bahá’í’s – will notice our peaceful happiness, and will want to become a part of that life.

But if they look at us and see only a guilt-ridden community, beleaguered at all times by our own sense of failure, and never really reaching that station of being “well-pleased, and pleasing unto Him,” then why in the world would they want to become part of that? To an atheist, although that life may be unsatisifying if they focus on it with due introspection, yet it still offers a certain freedom and lightness of soul that would be hard to give up for a typically “religious” life.

I think the Cause of Bahá’u’lláh, instead, presents this idea:

In this world we are influenced by two sentiments, Joy and Pain.

Joy gives us wings! In times of joy our strength is more vital, our intellect keener, and our understanding less clouded. We seem better able to cope with the world and to find our sphere of usefulness. But when sadness visits us we become weak, our strength leaves us, our comprehension is dim and our intelligence veiled. The actualities of life seem to elude our grasp, the eyes of our spirits fail to discover the sacred mysteries, and we become even as dead beings.

There is no human being untouched by these two influences; but all the sorrow and the grief that exist come from the world of matter – the spiritual world bestows only the joy!26

We only water the earth overmuch by our tears of self-grief, and make the ground muddy and hard to navigate. Pulling up our feet wearily from the mire, we are aware only of how tired and difficult life has become. But if we dry these tears, and invite the sun to shine upon everything in our lives, the terrain will once again become firm and easily navigable. This, I believe, is the key to fulfilling our duties: not to continue adding on to our sense of responsibility until our backs creak, but to realize through our joy and sense of glory that the load is not at all difficult to bear. So many things become easy through love, that seem almost unaccomplishable without it.

The idea that we are abhorrent to God should be erased from our minds. It makes no sense in the world of nature; I can find no correlate in this plane of existence, nor in the language of Revelation. Instead, I find words like these:

O Son of Spirit! With the joyful tidings of light I hail thee: rejoice! To the court of holiness I summon thee; abide therein that thou mayest live in peace for evermore.

O Son of Spirit! The spirit of holiness beareth unto thee the joyful tidings of reunion; wherefore dost thou grieve? The spirit of power confirmeth thee in His cause; why dost thou veil thyself? The light of His countenance doth lead thee; how canst thou go astray?27

And:

Dost thou reckon thyself only a puny form When within thee the universe is folded?

Then we must labor to destroy the animal condition, till the meaning of humanity shall come to light.28

And:

If any man were to meditate on that which the Scriptures, sent down from the heaven of God’s holy Will, have revealed, he would readily recognize that their purpose is that all men shall be regarded as one soul, so that the seal bearing the words “The Kingdom shall be God’s” may be stamped on every heart, and the light of Divine bounty, of grace, and mercy may envelop all mankind. The one true God, exalted be His glory, hath wished nothing for Himself.29

If the intent of this essay is unclear, allow me to restate it: at some point along the way we seem to have developed a degrading, self-defeating idea that we are forever unacceptable, and perhaps even abhorrent, to God; and we wear away our lives striving for this acceptance, but never quite feel that we reach it. But this model offers little joy, and much anxiety; rather, we should permit our soul’s exuberance at the thought of rejoining our Creator to propel us forward. Then, we would find the ordinary life jejune beyond degree, and would discover ourselves naturally racing toward that far-off goal…

O Son of Justice! Whither can a lover go but to the land of his beloved? and what seeker findeth rest away from his heart’s desire? To the true lover reunion is life, and separation is death. His breast is void of patience and his heart hath no peace. A myriad lives he would forsake to hasten to the abode of his beloved.30

Time can play funny tricks when we look at the world. Seen today, it is true that there are many faiths, and they all profess ultimately the same goal. In fact, as I look at things through the eye of “now”, I think Bahá’ís have just added one more piece to an already overly complicated puzzle.

As I dilate my view, however, and comprehend the entire span, I see that there are not several faiths, but a progression marching steadily through history.

The appearance of “many” today is the result of past rejection. If all of these faiths – any of them – are true, there would be fewer now. If Muhammad were true, the Christians should have accepted Him when they encountered the Muslims. Already that would have made the world simpler today. If Christ were true, the Jews would have acknowledged Him. If Buddha were true, the Hindus surrounding Him would have listened more closely, etc.

Bahá’u’lláh says, “This is the changeless Faith of God, eternal in the past, eternal in the future”. Our mistakes are what fracture truth, just as Muhammad said, “Knowledge is a single point, but the ignorant have multiplied it”. When I look at the world and see so much contention of belief, I realize I am not looking at Divine truth, but instead I’m seeing the nature of our own psyche at this time: divided, separated, clinging to past ways and patterns.

As we grow toward inner health, isn’t it natural we will come to recognize one truth? “Bahá’í” is not the name of this truth; as Lao-Tzu wrote, “The name which can be named is not the Eternal Name.” We are always, always midwives of a future truth, endlessly unfolding in pace with man’s ability to comprehend. This is true of my own education; I think it’s also true of the world at large.

The question is, are Bahá’u’lláh’s writings what we need to continue our progression? I don’t think humankind has plumbed the depths of its spiritual potential – no matter the actual nearness of God – nor is such development by any means universal. Watching the evening news proves this to me every time. Where is the plan, the path, the means for this to happen?

Acceptance works well on an individual basis, but alone it cannot lead to education. If I had a room full of children under my care, would leaving them alone to choose their own way ever lead to unity and mutual understanding, or inner growth? Instead, lack of guidance would cause whatever is strongest in their character to become dominant.

The world’s people are at varying stages of growth; they need a parent, a guardian, to oversee its needs and provide direction. It needs genuine authority! This is what the words of God offer, for the time in which they are revealed. And this is why Bahá’ís see a special place for Bahá’u’lláh writings, since they are especially suited to the requirements of world unity, and address humanity’s problems on a global scale.

And when we’ve finally conquered that problem – a situation poets have begged and longed for for thousands of years already – our growth will simply continue from there. Always under a different name, but always with the same theme and spirit: unfoldment of human potential, personally and collectively.

Likewise, reflect upon the perfection of man’s creation, and that all these planes and states are folded up and hidden away within him.

Dost thou reckon thyself only a puny form When within thee the universe is folded?

Then we must labor to destroy the animal condition, till the meaning of humanity shall come to light.

Love is a veil betwixt the lover and the beloved.35

When you love any object, you love it because of the presence of the Beloved’s attributes manifest within it; just as you love a letter from a beloved one for the sake of its author. All created things refer to God in this way; creation is the token of its Creator.

So the love we feel is the natural response of the soul to the quality of its Cherished One as revealed by and through material reality. And yet, because He is ever inaccessible to us, this love must always make reference to the point of revelation; that is, it must always be known and expressed within the framework of a limited being, however much that love is for the sake of One Who is limitless.

Thus the nature of our love itself tends to draw us away from the One Beloved, because that love exists due to limited things, and must exist in reference to what is limited – even our feeling of it is limited, our understanding is limited, our own being was created within these limits – albeit the love itself is directed beyond the limited toward the Unlimited.

For example, you receive a letter from one who is longed for. All you have at that moment is the letter; you read it again and again, countless times, for the sake of the one who wrote it. It is your means of communion, your path, your point of connection. In respect to you, it is both reunion and separation, connection and distance; it emphasizes the presence of the author, and emphasizes her absence, at one and the same moment; it confirms and denies reunion in a single stroke.

In respect to the writer, the beloved, it is the dawning point, the voice, the means, the vehicle, the expression, the word, the means, the sign. It is her way of making her love known. It is the form of the tie, the life of the bond. In respect to itself, it is not worthy of mention; ink and paper alone have never deserved love.

In respect to the life, it is both means and barrier. It is the channel, but not the flow; the form, but not the substance; the manifestation, but not the essence.

Between the believer and God, love itself is like the letter. For love is one of the created attributes of God, knowable by its signs in the world of man. Love is enumerated among the several virtues which consciousness may experience. And so love itself is a means by which we gain access to God through the revelation of His attributes in the expression of love. And yet God Himself is exalted beyond love itself. Even love proclaims its lifelessness and unworthiness compared to God Himself. It is only a created reality, at the service of believer’s approach to his Creator, but in no way the goal, or an adequate substitute for the goal. God is beyond all things, all knowledge – inapproachable. Love alone, as with the other attributes of God, permit union between what is exalted beyond any concept of union, and the believer whose limitations require the idea of “union” in order to end the fire of “separation”.

Such that love itself, in its own being, is glorified by the role that it plays, and bemoans that it, too, must hold the believer apart from true union, in the sense of absolute oneness between what is finite with what is beyond even infinity. The painting must stand between you and Beauty, however much it is your means and access to Beauty; however much you could not know Beauty without it; however much its meaning and glory and purpose are its relationship to Beauty; yet, by its very presence, it declares that you and Beauty are still separate, owing to your need of a medium. The painting declares, “You are not yet one with Beauty, for you look to me to see Beauty, though I am not Beauty.” So with love, we love the creator, yet require that love to have the experience of loving. We cannot gain access – while cherishing love – beyond that love, nor reach the Source behind that love, no more than we could see without sight, or know without knowing, or experience presence in absence. The attributes separate us from what is attributed, as the phenomena debar us from the noumenon.

Beyond this is a mystical station in which the medium altogether disappears, as described by Bahá’u’lláh:

… the denizens of the undying city, who dwell in the green garden land, see not even “neither first nor last”; they fly from all that is first, and repulse all that is last. For these have passed over the worlds of names, and fled beyond the worlds of attributes as swift as lightning. Thus is it said: “Absolute Unity excludeth all attributes.” And they have made their dwelling-place in the shadow of the Essence.36

These are a people who consort with the Author of love, of beauty, of all quality perceptible to life. They see love in terms of what makes love lovable, and beauty as to what makes beauty beautiful; and since these two are the same thing, beauty and love disappears and are replaced by Him. Love is left behind; only He remains. Life is no longer experienced, but God is the sole experience. Love as love was “a veil betwixt the lover and the loved one”; now it is Him, and has ceased to be nameable as its own reality. You ask such a man, “What is this? What is that?” And he might say, “What is ‘this’, what is ‘that’?”

… those personages who in a single step have passed over the world of the relative and the limited, and dwelt on the fair plane of the Absolute, and pitched their tent in the worlds of authority and command – have burned away these relativities with a single spark, and blotted out these words with a drop of dew. And they swim in the sea of the spirit, and soar in the holy air of light. Then what life have words, on such a plane, that “first” and “last” or other than these be seen or mentioned! In this realm, the first is the last itself, and the last is but the first.

In thy soul of love build thou a fire And burn all thoughts and words entire.37

One does not even say here that such and such a thing is beautiful because it reflects the Beauty of God; there is no “thing” apart from God to be named; there is no “beauty” to be described; there is no distinction of high from low, left from right. God is God in the mode of God – even though this itself is limited by its being reference to what is unreferenceable. “… the wayfarer leaveth behind him the stages of the ‘oneness of Being and Manifestation’ and reacheth a oneness that is sanctified above these two stations.” That is, if the beauty of a thing is due to the light of God within it, this still implies that something apart from God is revealing a light that originated from an unseen point outside itself; this still creates a veil between the Source and the believer, by asserting the existence of an intermediary – who is, by the nature of the description, not God. Yet if nothing is which is not Him (“There was God and there was naught beside Him.”), then what is meant by “intermediary”? One does not say that the being of beauty and the manifestation of being related to the same Source, without implying a division within this Source between its being and its manifestation. When even this veil is burnt away, then even the intermediary ceases to have being as an intermediary, which would imply a separate being from the Being that is its being. And thus:

In this city, even the veils of light are split asunder and vanish away. “His beauty hath no veiling save light, His face no covering save revelation.”38

All veils, even that veil by which Beauty was known as “beautiful” by its beauty in the world, are rent, and the believer himself is rescued from his belief. At this point there is no story to tell, for such would imply a telling, which there cannot be as itself. And yet, a telling there is, and a sign, a beauty, a love – even though they do not exist, and it is absurdity to speak as if they did. It is not that the sign is rubbed out from view, for then it would still exist even if invisibly; it is that what was known as “sign” is utterly gone; even sign and signified are beyond a claim of oneness, and one cannot understand why there are words used to talk of such a thing as “sign” and “signified”. What are these, when only God is?

It impossible to discuss the matter in a language that constantly establishes its points by distinguishes one truth from another. Talk of unity discards plurality, while plurality continues undisturbed. If you have a hundred love letters, and say that in fact there is only one letter, you speak truth and confusion in the same moment. There are one hundred, and there is one; each statement denies the other, while both are true. There is no way around this aspect of language, since clarity is achieved at the cost of obscurity. It must be left, then, to experience; hearts which understand will know it by other means, and perhaps speaking on these matters only happens because not speaking was, for a moment, simply less desirable.

The Fast has reached its end. What an interesting month it’s been, with hard moments intense enough to make me sick, and high points so glorious, they chased away all awareness of time. I think the predominant theme of this month has been that of a humbling self-education. I am not who I thought I was at the beginning of this month. And yet, though I come away with a sharper understanding of my imperfections, at the same time I bear a higher appreciation of their beauty.

In beholding the magnitude of my flaws with a new perspective, I realize that I can never make any real headway against them within one lifetime. Even if I spent all my life’s energy on just one, I would be worsening a host of others due to a lopsided focus. This being the way of things completely changes my private goals. Becoming perfect is no longer a hopeful dream. In those terms, I’m screwed. Life must be about something other, or Someone other, Whose nature is able to satisfy my soul’s craving for perfection. Even what I identify as my imperfections are only such in the context of the company I keep. I cannot even perfect a knowledge of my imperfections! The whole bubble must be left to burst, being as it is both empty and insubstantial – and thus unworthy of attention.

To what, then, do I direct the labors of my life? Perhaps earlier entries have already pointed the way. For there is one thing, having nothing to do with me or my imperfections, that has the capacity to satisfy me – insofar as I perceive it. I have called it many names: such as Quality, perfection, God. If this truly is the goal, then the only requirements for living rightly are the steps that take me there.

qalam

Each man is himself a pen:  
a slim reed  
cut from the bed of possibility,  
fired in the pain and trials of life,  
until the crack  
that is his central flaw  
fills with the ink of yearning  
and bright tales appear --  
from so humble a tool --  
to tell of our Master's beauty.

Idealism and realism are different in concept from that between optimisim and pessism, even though I sometimes here people say, “I’m not pessimistic, I’m realistic”, as if the ideas were similar.

Idealism and realism concern perceptions of reality. An idealist will see the world as he wants it to be, whereas a realist sees it as it is. I think that idealism is great for vision, but terrible for planning and implementation. The same – conversely – with respect to realism. Both of these traits are good, if they balance each other and are applied at the right times.

Pessimism and optimism concern our expectation of outcomes. That is, any endeavor which reaches into the future touches on the unknown. The unknown is full of surprises, both bad and good. The optimist will prefer to anticipate a positive outcome. If he is also a realist, he will acknowledge the possibility of a bad outcome, but will focus on and anticipate the positive one. The idealist will ignore the bad outcomes entirely, and fail to plan for them.

The pessimist on the other hand will prefer to anticipate a negative outcome. He simply assumes that most endeavors are bound to fail, or will not achieve their highest fulfillment. If he is an idealist, he will never believe that good things can happen; if he is a realist, he will accept this possibility, but still plan for the negative.

So when people say, “I’m not being pessimist, I’m being realistic”, it confuses the meaning of these two words, which apply to different elements of perception.

What can we truly know about ourselves? Whatever I call myself depends entirely on who’s around me. Thus, I only seem anxious when others are calm. Any term used to describe me can be confirmed or invalidated by picking the right crowd to hang around. Is this knowledge? Or is it more “appearance by context”?

If no externally descriptive attribute can be called knowledge – because it is not stable, the opposite being equally true under different circumstances – I am left only with what refers to my heart. For example, if I touch fire I feel pain. This is absolute, and I would call the displeasure of such pain in that moment a kind of self-knowledge. The fire teaches me I didn’t like putting my hand there.

My limitations are not really knowledge, since I am constantly learning how to overcome them. I may feel I know my boundaries, but the flaw in this “knowledge” is that it refers to future actions, while the future partakes too much of the Unknown. Anything I may say about myself that references the future instantly becomes unsure, and I cannot ever claim it as self-knowledge.

Preference, however, has nothing to do with the future. It is of the essence of vagary – and yet is complete in its being. When something pleases me, that moment becomes the fulfillment of all past time, in that whatever has gone before led my soul to that condition of ecstasy. What happens afterward is anyone’s guess; and since only in the present can ecstasy be known, it is only in the present that anything of my self may be known. (I leave the understanding of “pleasure” to the reader, since what pleases the soul must be discovered individually).

We can know what uplifts the heart because it has nothing to do with what we do not know: that is, it can be known fully in the moment we don’t like something, even if a moment later we change our minds and decide to like it. It’s not the preference that we know, but the experience of liking or disliking it in that moment.

Not only does this invalidate every name I might apply to myself, it debars me from looking into the past, or projecting into the future, to learn who I am. Even in the present I am too variable – pleasure being such a fleeting thing – that it is not any particular state of being I “know”, but rather that very condition of being alive. I am not any thing, but simply am. This would seem self-evident, if not for the fact that I have also called other things knowledge.

If knowledge can only exist in the experience of being aware, what does it mean to the task of striving to “know thyself”? The primacy of awareness would imply that our present experience defines who we are. Thus even if all the conditions of my life describe me as “content”, I am only content in so far as I am content, without reference to externals. To connect with an earlier entry, this implies that self-knowledge is of a wholly different order than the definitions of self constituting the ego.

If nothing is true of myself until we experience it, it emphasizes the importance of considering our present state of being. How many plans are made for the sake of acquiring a name, and thus to “know who we are”? But if I am only what I am in the moment that I am, it changes the organizing principle of affairs to be what conduces to the experience of self I most hold with. My knowledge of self lies in the measure of my awareness of being alive; thus to waste precious hours in search of any other kind of knowledge is to lose my chance at the only knowledge available to me: that I am.

This reduces to a kind of pragmatism, in which my actions are measured by and aimed at whatever will lead to an experience of the good. It means there is no quality that adheres to things, perdurable and constant, but only an ineffable Quality to life, the experience of which is its marrow (see journal entries from the summer of 2003 on this theme).

If this is hedonism, let it be a spiritual hedonism, in that it is my soul I aim to please. But how to pleasure my soul? I must place its needs before all others to recognize what it attepmts to tell me through the medium of experience. If I can know this, perhaps I will know who and what I am; but if I do not know it, to what end should I direct my life?

Following our dreams

On a somewhat related note, my friend Sina Mossayeb recalled me to an excellent article others might appreciate, titled What Should I Do With My Life?, by Po Bronson. It addressed the question of how we choose what to do with our lives, and the obstacles that sometimes hinder us from realizing our dreams.

there are soft breezes blowing  
a tree the color of wheat  
a sun over all

restless, the wind teasing the grass tips

there are no clouds to watch  
only a day so gentle  
it seems like a lullabye

where are the seas of time?  
the twin shores of Then and When?  
i've landed on this sandbar amidst the vast blue  
of time and sky...  
even my pen is ready to unwind

When that moment comes,  
and I hear the candle's light  
  go out in a whisper,  
where will I be then?

They call it death here;  
but I wonder  
whether what I've seen so far  
you would call life.

Leave me to sit by the rutilant flames,  
mesmerized  
having lost every opportunity of success in your world.

And with my dying breath I shall blow a kiss  
that no one will understand;  
for my last breath is gone now,  
and why?

Having made "nothing" of myself,  
I am invisible to you.

Whisper to me,  
  so that the world drowns out its noise;  
Hide from me,  
  that everything else is looked over;  
Touch me not,  
  until each moment is an expectation;  
List me among the things least regarded,  
  that I outdo myself to prove my worth.

Little Gila monster!  
Reaching over those pebbles must be hard.  
Your back, yellow like a hundred bees at rest,  
twists left and right, left and right,  
gathering strength to conquer those pebbles once again.

Without haste you waddle home,  
a foot here, a foot there,  
until the desert stones alone  
remember your passage.

Little heart:  
tell me the world that you see.  
I know the night hides  
the colors of the flowers --  
but they are still there.

God's love is like a cat's silent meow:  
His lips are forming the words "I love you,"  
even if closed eyes may never know.

I look at the moon:  
two innocent spheres of white  
joined by light with a kindred form.

My spirit is already there:  
only my body holds back:  
since gravity has thrown about a cloak  
which my being wears  
reluctantly.

And the cloak is the body itself:  
a fleshy jacket  
to retard the soul's celerity.

Otherwise, I would blaze out  
in a single instant  
and make my home upon that star,  
in the fields of infinite beauty.

I have taken Pain into my arms  
for a final kiss --  
no longer shall it sting me.

But then I wait;  
my lips grow dry --  
until the anguish of no anguish  
overcomes me,  
and my arms fly open once again.

It is a pain so sweet  
we remember every bitter word!  
Burned into our memory  
with a flame of love --  
ambivalent, yet fierce in meaning.

It is I, the pale shadow,  
who feels burnt by the sun;  
not I, the blazing glory,  
whose rays reach to infinity.

Magic requires that people allow it to happen.

If we close our mouths, how can the food enter?  
If we close our ears, where is the sound?

It may seem like a silent world,  
but this appearance is not the reality.

Giraffe: tall, long-headed -- a tongue of 40cm  
Sloping back, checkered spots;  
he slips away to nibble on some palm leaves.

Kangaroo hopping up, biting the finger of a youngster  
whose Mom finds it amusing!  
A beautiful coat of orange-brown,  
very interested in people.

Wombat: squat, fat, slow.  Burrowing.  
A burrowed mound for a home.  
Not moving an inch: a lazy gopher the size of a watermelon.

The moon lives up there,  
  so far away,  
    so detached,  
      so disinterested.

I imagine it has no connection with us,  
the living.

And then I think:  
  there are so many poems written,  
    so many songs,  
      hearts inspired,  
        minds turned thoughtful...

Looking from where I stand  
it seems so very far away;  
But reflecting more deeply:  
it is more involved with life than I am.

At dawn she reclined in thought,  
considering the tapestries of Earth,  
finding meaning in the destinies of earth-worms.

Then morning came.

With plant-slowness, her arms unfolded,  
and she lifted her leaves to the sun.

What in the night  
had been a goddess of melancholy,  
reveals colors now  
sadness has never known.

One drop of water holds a grain;  
one moment of time, a thought.

No one noticed the little thieves  
who stole what nature'd wrought.

Now a broad canyon sleeps  
where a mountain once was king --

Perhaps one of the believers gestured.

  "If you have faith  
  even as a grain of mustard seed  
  you will say to this mountain  
  `Remove thee from!'  
  and it will move." -- Matthew 17:20

They wonder why I need to be free from the world,  
but their wonder is their wonder  
and my life is my life.

Any attempt to break free is labelled "heresy",  
as they struggle to hold me down --  
for my life is my life.

I don't expect "let me be" to go over with anyone  
but at least leave me to decide my own dreams.  
My life is my life, and despite it all  
I intend to live it.

Never mind that I just ignored you,  
  just passed you by,  
  just voted to put you down,  
  just kicked you,  
  just ignored the fact of your being --

My parents made sure the word  
"stranger"  
allowed for anything.

Blue and black it all becomes  
as the moths begin their night journey.

I have never found peace when I looked for it;  
but when I rest from the task, somehow, it finds me.

I'm never able to summon joy at my command;  
but when I cease demanding, and let things be, there it is.

A smile is an awful thing to force;  
but a ray of errant sun when it appears.

The sun's light grows cold;  
its embers, like clouds of flame,  
are put away.

Blue becomes black, black becomes dream.  
The moths begin their night-journey.

The moon is but a god of borrowed vesture.

Two brothers sat, admiring the song of a nightingale.  
Suddenly, the Fairy of Nightingale Song appeared before them.  
She marvelled at their devotion  
and decided to grant each of them this wish:  
That the nightingale's song would never leave them.

Yet she stated further that each wish  
would be given according to the brother's hearts,  
and that this would determine the shape of it.

So it was that a cage appeared next to the first brother,  
and a nightingale nearby climbed inside.

Each day, as the brother walked about his home,  
he heard the beautiful song of his captive nightingale.  
But it was a mournful song, full of sadness.  
It was only the last remnant of the nightingale's heart --  
to sing to herself of her woe.

But this the first brother never noticed,  
because he was too delighted at showing his friends  
the wonderful bird that had been given him.

The second brother, meanwhile, instantly disappeared.  
He was transformed into a lake of pure, crystal water,  
where he sat patiently, in deep silence.

After several years, the nightingales came to trust him.  
They would fly out each day, to drink of his pure water,  
and to sing anthems of joy at his wonderful service.

He had sacrificed his own being -- as he knew it --  
to receive something in return far more enduring:  
a bond whose joy was shared by all.

Sufficient knowledge has lead to me to a place of no knowledge.  
Sufficient wisdom has made me a fool.

Enough vision, and I see the smallness of my nature;  
enough abandon, and my heart's fire compares with suns.

How to understand the being that is left  
when my being is washed away?

If one sit in a library, surrounded by books,  
should he consider them *his* knowledge?

At an instant he retrieves whatever learning you seek,  
and can discourse in the lofty tongues of ancients!

Should we regard the halls of memory any different?

If one ask a question, we withdraw the relevant item,  
and relay what was heard or thought another day.

If this is the hallmark of knowledge, whoever visits a library  
should claim the rank of scholar!

Or do I see the lens of my eye as "mine",  
differently from a telescope?  Both can be taken away.

Or the noble horse, who carries us great distances:  
is he "we" when we ride upon him?

Yet we charge through life on a steed of bodily form,  
and gaze at the world through fixed eyepieces of the skull,

And refer to mundane knowledge by humble requests  
of our own, uncomprehended memory!

Bit by bit, as I understand the nature of my understanding,  
and discover the borrowed qualities of my being --

I find that my understanding has made me ignorant,  
which implies that to know means knowing by other means.

That is, to hear without ears, for I have none.  
to see without eyes, for I am blind;

To know without knowledge, or memory,  
to travel without moving -- for where am I?

This is  attaining without changing state:  
for what is there to change?

What was something becomes nothing -- becomes all.

If knowledge is but a symbol of knowing --  
as the Beloved's hair is proof of His raven Locks --

What lies beyond this borrowed self,  
when we "see not even `neither first nor last'"?

Why is it each time I find you I lose myself?  
When I look up at stars, I see no more Earth?  
When I listen, my words stop?  
When I wake, the power to dream is dispelled?

For a bird to fly, the cage must be left behind.

I am like a reed of flesh,  
open to the world through nine holes,  
while the empty space within me:  
this defines who I am.

The softest breath, on a windless day,  
flows through me and my music is heard.  
But I am not the music.  
Such sound is never from me alone.  
What you hear is the playing of Another...

Each body carves out a portion of space,  
so that as we move, it moves,  
and a sense of continuity is formed.  
Yet the body only defines what has no existence --  
like a statement about what Truth is not.

Only an empty space, caught within the reed,  
accessed by apertures so very minor:  
yet on a windless day, beside the shores of the ocean,  
come! and hear a wondrous melody played.

The sun's heart burns like fire cannot burn.  
Crossing the sky, it kneels to kiss the earth --  
and is swallowed by a wine-dark sea.

We see everywhere the reason for the sun:  
It is life, light, time.  
But to it, are we larger than a pebble,  
circumambulating the mountain like a homesick flea?

The sun's heart burns without purpose.  
It loves only to know love;  
showering the emptiness of space, unbounded,  
always giving, never conscious of return.

Today, two white orbs, dotted with green  
reflect a light that can never be contained;  
swept a million miles into dream  
by a Heart more ardent than flame.

Even as a sun's love finally  
created the hearts who adore it:

  Love only to love,  
  and the Beloved will appear.

If I speak to you of the sea,  
feel it rolling through your heart,  
carrying you to lands unknown  
beyond the cloudy ridge of mystery.

She changes shape, temper,  
strength and rhythm,  
even as we speak of her --  
because we speak of her --  
one whose waters feed on our dreams.

Last night I lay with the sea,  
her arms enfolding me a thousand times.

Power often changes hands,  
but seldom changes character.

The pen and paper are for later.  
When the bride is at the altar,  
don't be seen scribbling notes!

Let your eyes, like lips, taste and cherish...  
Later your words -- little black ants all --  
can try to steal some sugar from the table.

When tasting a bitter cup,  
sprinkle sugar on the lips:  
whether raw and powder-fine  
or metaphoric:

  "Say: All things are of God."

Pass me the mug.

Don Juan Matus!

You call us from our everyday thoughts:  
and we puzzle over bird-calls  
and candle-lights flickering.

Each time we summon up  
the mundane task  
that brought us to your door,

We are plunged back into the mists again,  
musing on the solitary flights of Venus...

There is peace upon the ocean:  
gentle waves, open sky.

Midnight is a moment away,  
and the moon has grown full.

As I dream,  
the world falls behind me.  
Shores recede:  
the great expanse of the All  
becomes my horizon.

Everything is steel blue,  
at midnight upon the waves.

Unhappy trees of autumn,  
cry your soft, brown leaves;  
bestrew the streets with a hue of sadness,  
and blanket me in a hush of rosy brown.

I kneel, bowing to the dust.  
Giving up my life, I enter it;  
Giving up my soul, I serve it;  
Casting away my existence, I become it.

Now I am nothing, neither is it anything.  
And thereby we become, both of us, His.

The longing of a lover's eyes,  
draped in fire,  
fanned by the agony of time;  
neither sleep, nor food,  
only the sublimity of the heart's emotion,  
seeking out that kiss  
which transforms him into nothing...

Only as nothing can the human heart  
withstand the lover's stare;  
only as empty can it be filled,  
only as void can it know being --  
like the ear which does not speak  
and the mouth which does not hear,  
as long as we proclaim, proclaim, unceasing,  
her words cannot be heard:  
"I am here."

At times the pain of life is such that not living would be easier.  
And at times the joy of life is too great to bear, and dying would be a relief.

Between the two, which are as directions left and right, I am always moving:  
One foot falls to the left, the other to the right: walking between extremes.

Always the motion of my feet is repeated -- left, right, left, right --  
Describing the progression of a continual, forward movement.

Between the joys that are too ineffable,  
and the pains that are too indescribable, life goes on.  
Like an albatross on some days, plunging my feet thickly into the mud,  
Pulling, straining, only to fall over into the next situation.

Or am I a turtle, making his way slowly,  
or a lion ferociously stalking his prey?  
Do I bound like a gazelle, or creep like a weasel?  
Perhaps I beg my food from the ground like a swine sniffing out his truffles.

And yet some days I am a man, gazing out into the open West where there is only sea.  
I go on walking until the waters rise about me, and hold me back,  
and I am borne into an entirely new form of being.

Dumb.  Blind.  Awkward.  
Groping at a black dark.  
Stumbling through nights I am told are days,  
while those around me applaud as dreams appear.  
I long to wake.

Someone asked of Bahá’u’lláh: But as I have gone over and over the issue of His infallibility in my mind, I cannot see any way to derive a belief in it that is not circular.

If you examine only His statement of infallibility, it is circular. It’s no more proof than if I said so.

He states “His own person” as the reason for true belief. During the latter 1800s, this meant visiting Bahá’u’lláh Himself, and hearing His voice. This was the basis of belief for many early Bahá’ís, who could neither read nor write. In “Gleanings” Bahá’u’lláh writes:

… His (God’s) Manifestation can adduce no greater proof of the truth of His Mission than the proof of His own Person.41

After His passing, there remain two elements of “His own person”: the record of His deeds, and His writings. I myself am sceptical of historical record, so I turn to the depth of His writings for ample testimony that He is no plain author. There is too much consistency over a long period, no backtracking, no revising of theories that became outmoded as the years passed. But these are just what impressed me.

Question: Do you believe Bahá’u’lláh was literally omniscient?

He describes Himself in these terms:

… this Servant regardeth Himself as utterly lost and as nothing, even beside one of the beloved of God, how much less in the presence of His holy ones.

That is what He thought of Himself, as Mirzá Husayn-`Alí. But even as a book speaks the mind of its author – more than just ink and paper – so the Will of God was revealed by Bahá’u’lláh. In Him, and His words and actions, divine purpose was made incarnate. To emphasize this station, He wrote the following:

The essence of belief in Divine unity consisteth in regarding Him Who is the Manifestation of God and Him Who is the invisible, the inaccessible, the unknowable Essence as one and the same. By this is meant that whatever pertaineth to the former, all His acts and doings, whatever He ordaineth or forbiddeth, should be considered, in all their aspects, and under all circumstances, and without any reservation, as identical with the Will of God Himself. This is the loftiest station to which a true believer in the unity of God can ever hope to attain. Blessed is the man that reacheth this station, and is of them that are steadfast in their belief.42

You might say it is a question of being. To say Bahá’u’lláh is equal with God can mean several things, some of them true, some of them false. Consider when I pick up the telephone. It’s my brother calling. Now a young child asks, “Is that your brother?” I say, “Yes”. But what if he were asking about the plastic and machinery itself?

Bahá’u’lláh disregarded His own flesh, and proclaimed it dust. He said the same is true of all men. What is real about us is our spirit, the virtues we embody, and our faith. Well, when they bury me, it’s not me they’re putting in the box. So which am I? The man, or what animates the man? Bahá’u’lláh was a man just like you and I. But what animated Him was of a different order altogether.

On the grass  
letting time slip away  
like cotton from dandelion flowers...

Around me birds caw,  
the grey clouds and water move past --  
a raindrop finds my cheek.

Who am I, again?

If all the years  
that gather behind  
lay up tall in  
the stores of the mind,  
perhaps those heights  
may help us find  
what truths had found  
a younger eye blind.

Empty days, spotted nights of  
countless camphor drops  
or milky dew on a  
silent web of gossamer black.

The cold night is home to  
so much fire -- a billion suns!  
too much light to belong  
to those depths of endless black.

How could all those distant  
daylight worlds,  
taken together,  
sum to such a lonely, empty black?

Perhaps their days are empty too  
all glimmer with no shine;  
sleeping midnight jellyfish, or  
white glowbugs trapped  
in a vast amber turned black.

Sunlight fell on everything,  
lighting the palm trees brilliant  
that stood in the middle of the lake.

The waters were shaped in rounded pools,  
surrounded by cultured lawns  
and a chaos of trees and flowers.  
While overhead the squawking the fruit bats  
reminded me that I was in a foreign country.

But nothing so much as the black swans  
gliding through schools of ivory gulls,  
standing out beautifully  
like carvings of ebony adrift upon the water;  
as the others, like fluttering foam,  
rose up around them.

blue  
glints of the sun  
blue  
sand gives way to the  
blue  
children running, splashing  
blue  
flashing schools of color  
blue  
salt air -- so sweet a memory --  
blue  
summer days beneath skies of  
blue

The world is filled with borders --  
or is it?

If the river runs dry,  
and the riverbed fills up,  
does that mean we're brothers again?

I forget what day you crossed it...  
Apparently you've forgotten too.

Looking up we saw a face,  
clear, bold and gazing at the sun.

Its deep lines bespoke countless years;  
its running fall of tears, a joyful sadness.

It was the face of a mountain,  
Now ten thousand years old,

Capturing what all faces from the beginning of time have known:  
Wonder, awe and the patience of long years;

Surprise, astonishment and the mute wonder we feel  
When we imagine how all of it came to be.

I think hurriedness is one of the patent evils of our society.  
If I am "busy", then my eyes are closed,  
and I can never witness the grandeur of a starry sky.

People move about with such speed,  
such frenetic celerity,  
that they don't see me watching them.  
Imagining themselves fulfilled,  
I wonder only: when will they have time for me?

The train whistle blows at every second,  
the water boils over, the children cry,  
the cat begs for food, the rain begins,  
projects are late at work, everyone is tardy...

And now, as an old man, my life has passed.  
That breath I took at twenty-five  
is finally over.  
I am ready to appreciate.  
I rise, and say hello to the funeral salesman.

The green army raises their swords,  
gathering at the beachhead to launch  
triumphantly into their final campaign!

Sorry, my mistake...  
It was only the reeds by the lake,  
viewed at a sideways angle, dreamily.

Caprice, clad in epidermal cloth;  
chimeras walking through the Valley of Death:  
like a shapeshifter in the night,  
a ghostly wisp of smoke,  
a dazzle of moonlight on a glistening stone:  
never the same, always changing.  
Humans beings are a flux in the middle of the universe.

Cold,  
in the way of frozen,  
wasting ice:  
the arctic's night  
of every creature  
running toward the hope  
of morning light.

This is,  
in ways unknown,  
the landscape of cities  
filled with men:  
the white bunny soul,  
the hunting bear soul,  
the sleeping seal soul.

All wait for the day  
as chill bites the limbs  
of their fading hope.  
When comes the day?

Ignore form.  Study content.  
Form is the blacksmith  
who finds only afterward  
that it was his anvil  
he was pounding with such fury.

Ignore the material, look to the spiritual.  
We make sure to walk the spiritual way with practical feet  
by first setting our affairs in order  
before we embark on our flights of fancy.  
I've studied grammar, and language:  
now I'm ready to enter the unknown.

This is a fragile, scary place.  
People who speak of truth -- real truth --  
are put to death.  Others are reviled,  
scorned, rejected.  
Those are the places I'm bound for.  
I expect my writing will convey this.

If it's ugly in my eyes,  
then I've discovered something new,  
since how many of us dive forward  
into what is painful, or unpleasant?  
Yet that is where the new things are:  
the novelties which the world  
can only thank you for when you're gone.

The deer in the park  
watch me with curiosity.  
What mysteries of life have I found?  
Do I know the way  
to the ever-green grass?

With the breeze, they fade away --  
only daydreams --  
and I look to memory:

Home in Virginia, the summer fields,  
winter meadows,  
spring brooks...

Enough years I've lived  
to know them all many times.

But the ever-green grass  
I have yet to find.  
Only in daydreams,  
seeming a little greener each year.

Within a dream I dreamt of another place  
where the heart does not toil, nor the body ache.

Where the pen is a lonely instrument,  
  for the spirit is busy wandering.  
Not trapped in its sighs like a chambered ghost,  
but forever seeing, feeling,  
without pause to transcribe or explain.

My heart is a fish on that bright sea;  
the depths are its home.  
When the storms rage, there is only peace.

I saw a tree in a forest,  
and asked him, "Who are you?"  
He said, "I'm the tallest tree around."

I cut off his top --  
making him level with the rest --  
and asked again, "Who are you?"  
He said, "A redwood; a mighty Sequoia."

So I burned and destroyed his brothers,  
till the statement "Sequoia" had lost its meaning,  
and I asked again, "Who are you?"  
He waited, then said,  
  "A member of the coniferous, cone-bearing family."

I destroyed his family,  
to the last sprouting tree,  
and asked him again.  
He said, "I am a tree, with branches reaching to heaven."

So I wiped out all other species,  
until he was completely alone on Earth.  
And I asked again.  
He waited longer, then said,  
"I am a living, growing being."

Then all matter I destroyed,  
until there were no atoms but his atoms,  
and I asked again, "Who are you now?"

I have yet to hear his answer.

Adrift... so terribly adrift.  
Ever blown and reconfigured:  
never the same.

As white as the pallor of death;  
dry, unfeeling,  
moving about with a purpose all their own.

So much activity,  
so little result.  
Moving here and there, only to move back;  
today a valley, tomorrow a dune.

Their vastness draws out from me all that I have  
and replaces nothing.  
Not even the sign that my efforts are worthwhile.

And now they bury me,  
these desert sands,  
since I have become just as lifeless as they.

Far-away blue  
farther than my sight reaches  
hinting at the empty black of space beyond  
so vast it loses its meaning.

The pen, the writer  
this dot on paper  
lost in the infinite blue.

I am less than a thought  
less than the uncreated sentence  
as much nothing  
as the limitless arms of a night sky  
embracing four trillion worlds.

Until the magic happens  
the mystic's thaumaturgy  
who blends in a formless soup the scene and seer  
until both are one  
and this shadow on a bright day writing  
is christened "self"

A moment within the universe of who I am.

People dress up their figures  
  to be stylish  
their words  
  to be proper  
their thoughts  
  to be clever  
their hair  
  to be pretty  
their minds  
  to be accepted  
their hearts  
  never to be hurt.

Until today  
I've always thought  
the effort to make my words pretty  
was motivated by something artistic.

When really the motive is no different  
than the little voice which says:  
"An Armani suit is better than a flannel shirt."

Fashion, or the inherited conceptions of people  
reconfigured so as to appear new,  
has been the driving force of my life,  
whether positively as a supporter  
or negatively as a rebel.

But I don't accept one word of it.  
Nor do I accept the casuistry  
  called arguments  
which people use to defend their various modes  
of fashion or opinion.

It is all pure rubbish  
and stale  
whose defenders use words  
cooked in the very same pot as their beliefs.

Now consider this:  
It doesn't matter what you look like  
so long as it reflects the dignity of your nature;  
it doesn't matter what you sound like  
so long as it's the voice of your own heart;  
and it doesn't matter what you think  
so long as the thoughts are your own.

The rest is garbage, an don't let them tell you otherwise.  
If the above philosophy renders me ugly and misunderstood: oh well.  
Those words come from *their* vocabulary, anyway.

How many kind eyes  
look out at the world?

How much laughter  
do we hear?

How much courtesy  
graces the name "humanity"?

Today, we are one less.

And outside my window,  
where I used to see his truck,  
the great arms of the loquat tree  
have folded, and broken.

Half of that tree lies silent now on the ground.

It could no longer sustain  
its burden of sorrow.

"In a drop thou beholdest the secrets of the sea"  
so with all the perfections potential in thee.

As a teacher draws forth from the days of youth  
our thoughts and ideas on the subject of truth,

the mind develops, and the hearts unfold --  
bearing diamonds and rubies, emeralds and gold --

from that inner land, hidden in the eyes of a babe,  
every great man and woman is made.

The paper was pure white,  
and then I scribbled over it.  
Was it worthwhile?  
Was my impact on life sufficient?

I think my death should be simple, invisible,  
and my tombstone free of words --  
so that only my actions remain.

The thought that troubles me is this:  
will such special ink  
be strong enough to preserve my memory?

What human worker bee,  
humming within the drone  
the machine drone  
of corporate America,  
doesn't long for the  
giddy taste of Friday?

In fact, the week is lost  
dreaming for that day.  
Monday pulls away  
from its heavy glue --  
slowly, drearily --  
while Thursday rushes forth,  
and daydreams leap ahead,  
jumping at the chance  
to play on Friday.

In fact, we live  
in hope of Friday,  
in loss of Friday,  
wasting our lives  
every day but Friday.

And on Friday?  
Generally we look to forget it:  
beer, wine, whatever.  
So I guess, ultimately,  
at birth we're already dead.

I wish I had a switch  
that would make English  
a foreign language to me.

Then I could watch the faces of people,  
bobbing up and down,  
and listen to the music of their voices:

The soft tones, mixed with  
rich, lustry cooing;  
or the staccato whisper of a hushed conversation.

And everything else:  
the complaints, rumors, gossip,  
and talk of this world;

would transform again into something innocent  
and quite uniquely beautiful.

We are all butterflies,  
heading on our way to somewhere wonderful.

Then one foot gets stuck in the web.  
And rather than peeling it off  
and continuing on our way,  
we feel compelled to look further --  
when there's nothing further to see!

So it happens that each step  
entangles us deeper and deeper.  
Soon we'll never fly again.

Then the spider comes  
and our blood is sucked dry.  
We are nothing left  
but a dry carcass, troubled by the wind.

She's only six, and the tension is terrible;  
If only this hour would be on its way!  
Each tick and tock of the grandfather clock  
Parcels out time in infinitesimal moments  
Until for her, eternity has finally passed away.

He is sixteen, with eyes in the clouds,  
While his teacher drags him back to class.  
Each tick and tock of the grandfather clock  
Counts a second for a second;  
Until sixty times sixty  
Rewards his patience at last.

The man and woman with "Baby on Board"  
Are a few minutes late -- and not one to spare!  
Each tick and tock of the grandfather clock  
Steals an hour from their lives,  
And leaves them rapt in despair.

A gentleman with a watch  
Watches the watch watch him.  
Each tick and tock of the grandfather clock  
Is a year off his life  
And what's left grows dim.

Grandfather at last! for whom the clock was built.  
It's not too late for that old gray head.  
Each tick and tock of the grandfather clock  
Is a lifetime -- a journey:  
For with each tick he's reborn.  
And with each tock, struck dead.

Close-cropped  
butch cut  
pulled back  
behind the brow  
wrinkles everywhere  
an old man's head  
the portrait of age.

Great is the mountain,  
and vast is the sea;  
and deeper the mystery,  
the farther I see.

Never wonder the beauty,  
Never question the love;  
if peace is not possible,  
Who gave us the dove?

Sadness sits down with me for tea,  
and my cup fills up with tears.

Emptiness grips me,  
and the content is gone.

Loneliness holds me,  
and I cease to care.

Depression finds me,  
and it all fades to uniform black...

But somewhere, there is a spark.  
Otherwise I'd be already gone.

In the cracks of the sidewalk  
I saw pale, violet flowers growing:

Sensitive, timid,  
but with that soulful beauty  
only nature and children possess.

It was then I knew not to despair;  
that perhaps in the fissures of a broken heart,  
pale, violet flowers might grow.

Human thought is a parade of ignorance:  
our mind begets the shadows on the cave's wall:  
what does it mean to go forth into the light?

When we bow in reverence, the mind is stilled,  
and only the feelings of the heart fill time.  
Who is the speaker in that silence?

There is a self behind our thoughts, maybe a "not self",  
in which every mystery is hidden by rays of light.

As these unfold, a brightness awakens the mind;  
thus, through blindness, we first come to know the truth.

If my heart were to speak  
it would cry.  
The words would be choked out.

And if they squeaked their way  
through the din of the world,  
they would remain unheard --

Like a whisper in a firestorm,  
or the footsteps of a kitten in the rain.

Poetry, music, or art  
is something we use to equate  
ourselves with a greater beauty outside.

In the falling leaves of autumn,  
or the raindrops that lie with sadness on the ground,

We behold something in nature --  
isolated for a single moment by our attention --  
that draws out from our hearts  
an impulse toward something greater.

Each drop of light  
  that falls from the sun  
splashes dazzling in my eye.  
And if I blink away  
  the brilliant, blinding rays,  
on opening I am immersed again.

I remember sun.  
I remember evening wind, and  
the memory of a pretty girl:  
her name was Nicki.  
The night was filled with demons  
and we lived only for play...  
if only my heart could remember.

I felt the anxiousness of long days  
as time dallied between summers.  
And playing -- such things came naturally.  
If only my mind could remember.

What happened from then until now?  
The blur is too hard to examine.  
I can recall but not account  
for so many days of waiting:

Waiting for now, waiting to question,  
if all that I'm left  
is to remember.

That love who is not,  
  knows not,  
  hears not,  
  feels not.

But I know.  I feel.

Enough feeling  
of emptiness unsatisfied  
to comprehend every unheard sorrow  
every uncast shadow  
ever corner  
round which my hopes are caught  
waiting for tomorrow.

Poems can be so poor at depicting understanding;  
but when I have nothing better to write,  
I try.

Flesh: pink, cold, oily:  
Covering rice: wet, shining and white;

My tongue embraces what soon disappears,  
as a lover who comes and leaves in the night.

Like a truth known only in doing:  
a temporary, unexplainable right;

That fish I had still plays with me,  
and lingers on in memory's sight.

Just a fish, you ask?  Don't play the fool;  
only a master, striving could cut it just quite.

Ah, what my mouth wouldn't give to taste it again...  
another round of that ultimate bite.

Man clutches at his heart with an empty fist --  
  finding nothing to remove, nothing to replace --  
while the pain of it burns him like a dying ember,  
  trapped and immovable in the center of his chest.

In the hope of love, he lives on --  
  hope of peace, hope of rest, hope of stillness.  
He hopes until wet tears bring the taste of salt to his mouth;  
  and yet still, there is nothing but that salt to console him.

Farewell, to the fading sunset:  
  not in this life will I find relief,  
but in the next, where all things wonderful that could not be  
  find expression in ways we never dreamed of.

I repose with sadness  
beneath a canopy of memories;  
and watch my life -- how it unfolded --  
wondering exactly who lived it?

Not all the sentiments were mine;  
not all the thoughts would I agree with.  
As if a ghost had given me his memories,  
and left me to contemplate them for a while.

What frightens me is that this ghost  
intends to continue using my body.  
But I shall not let it!  I shall awake!  
The life of unawareness is too small for us both.

All I would need is to hang like a fish  
on the shining hook of that moment,  
yanked about whichever way the Fishmonger wished  
stripped of my armory scales  
robbed of my heart, my lungs  
stretched over the burning flames  
and roasted into a pale memory --  
a moment's taste upon His lips.

Thus am I reunited:  
I have found the way to mingle flesh.  
It requires only the mystery of that moment...

Yet how quickly they would lead me away;  
how quickly they would counsel me never to look again.

I suppose it makes a bad worker  
who has such a view of the sky in front of him  
into which the wings of his soul  
long to escape their frustrated peace.

Where the ever-deepening silence  
collects into quiet pools of sound,  
and the waves of light  
issuing from far-off beacons  
touch my fingertips as I lift them to my face,

I understand that here is  
a holy place,  
where holy thoughts, and holy deeds,  
have made sacred  
a once ordinary ground.

Poetry best chronicles the devastation of the heart.

Whether lost love,  
or mystical transcendence,  
or abasing fear.

Whatever eradicates the man, and leaves the lover only:  
alone, wondering, debating the validity of his feelings against  
  a universe of other concerns.

Only when we truly feel the triviality of our experience,  
does it somehow become genuine.

Into the river I cast a stone  
and the waters part immediately;  
I feel like a conqueror: powerful.

Then eight thousand years go by.  
The rock is gone; I am dust.  
The meaning of power has changed.

In the palace of the sky,  
a great, blue carpet has been laid,  
bearing a procession of liveried, white ghosts  
toward a throne of gold,  
seating a king whose crown cannot be viewed.

The guests tumble anxiously, slowly,  
rending their own fiber in their patient wait;  
bumping without hurry, they hurry;  
without substance, they present a picture  
constant through every year of time.

Each morn the wan prince, donned in glory,  
rustles his silken sheets of pink.  
Gathering attendants far and wide  
though his kingdom last but for a wink!

Yet: Do they look down at us, or up?  
Are we their sky, reflections from a mirror in-between?  
In which phantoms grasp at eternity  
and learn that forms subsist not,  
  only patterns,  
  only essences that repeat their manifestation  
    throughout the great, broad length of time.

Silently I peer into my computer,  
perceiving a palette of mental dreams.  
Images flash into my brain,  
then pour out in a stream of rapid fingers --  
no less real than the world around me.

And my office is bereft,  
except for the little grey box, unassuming,  
where a whole other world takes place.

Ahead of me faced a long hall  
seemingly dedicated to blackness.  
From either side, through closed doors,  
I heard screams and tired sighs;  
moans that betrayed an impatient anguish  
and a longing for an end to life.

Nearby, someone tapped me on the shoulder,  
causing me to look up from my newspaper.

Religion  
teaches brotherhood, but divides men;  
proclaims love, but breeds hatred;  
calls for peace, but engenders war;  
applauds charity, but hoards like a scrooge;  
talks spirituality, but practices greed.

Then, obviously,  
we are not talking about religion.

Religion is a delicate flower  
man has crushed by his ignorance.  
Now we look at that dead, brown relic,  
and assume we know what it meant.

Yet... flowers always bloom again.

Today my soul is a butterfly  
not knowing where to light.

My body takes rest on a pavilion  
in years as old as itself.

The bats around me wail  
like insistent children, flocks of them.

The air is still and calm,  
the sun is hot --  
this butterfly ready to roam.

Sails full, reaching out,  
leaving the world of people  
far enough behind to miss them.

The landscape is ever the same,  
maintaining its similitude  
though I've gone a hundred miles since.

The secrets she has to tell, this sea:  
a patient listener, far deeper than  
the querying blue eyes  
that wait for me back home.

The sea has its home  
in the souls of those who remember;  
never leaving them,  
mingled with their blood,  
awaiting the day when its many pilgrims  
hearken to their heart's thirsty cry.

Sometimes a poem is like a fever  
that flares up in the heart  
and set the fingers burning:

They blaze out on the page,  
scribbling their inward fury  
until the fuel is spent  
and the heart is left exhausted.

Other times the warmth of spring  
settles on the soul,  
and by fragrant winds and a warming sun  
communicates a lightness to our words  
and allows us to share the joy of life with one another.

Then winter comes.  We walk with  
Slow, even tread, afraid to slip  
Into the icy cold below,  
Or to slide out of control --  
Headed we know not where --  
And so we let our rigid forms protect us  
From the threat of self-disaster.

These things have their season too.  
And no more can one write out of moment  
Than mistake the night for day  
Or find in the gaze of the moon  
That same glaring brilliance of the sun.

These things have their time --  
Which leaves me waiting for the days like autumn  
When summer's plumage is bedecked on winter trees,  
And in her eagerness to shake off his chilly blight  
She explodes into a million shades of purple and maroon.

When my poems have this in them, I smile,  
Remembering the rapture of one Virginia fall  
Seen through a child's eyes  
When leaves, like rivers, flowed to the ground  
And I learned to rejoice at the very fact of Nature.

From that day until this  
I look back at those times with nostalgia;  
Happy at least that in the seasons of poetry  
They come back to visit me every once in a while.

Even as mystery is an air  
which surrounds us in the dead of night;

And silence has its own sound,  
audible as a deafening roar  
when truly we hear it deeply:

So everything about us has  
a deeper nature,  
a second skin,  
which requires our utmost attention to perceive it.

Otherwise,  
in the falling leaves of the redwoods  
one sees nothing but those leaves,  
and misses them for the wonderful tapestry they are.

Be happy!  
Be so happy  
that clouds will lose their burdens,  
the dawn comes eagerly,  
and starlings give their melodies away.

And shine!  
O ray of the Sun,  
until glaciers melt, giving up their sadness  
to the blue, blue waters,  
where, now reunited, they can play.

The warm summer nights have now betrayed me,  
turned cold, winter winds that ice the bone,  
beneath a moonless sky of shadow, velvet.

Yet through the dotted black, watching for the sun to rise,  
hands pressed tight to fend the zephyr's howl,  
I remember what the solstice brings, besides just cold and sorrow:

It signals the eternal promise,  
that whatever was far will come near again,  
to return, just as surely, though slowly, as before.

We always know that summer will come,  
and the rainbow,  
and happiness... someday.

But when is the important question.

Each day, are we standing at the front  
of a thousand-day winter?  
Or is spring just around the bend...

You feel that you're past poetry;  
that it's a sentimental thing -- for children.

Well, guess who I am,  
and what I strive to be:  
the ingenuousness of a child.

"So dry, so dry,  
are the lips of the world.

The longing for a kiss overwhelms us,  
prompting us to seek lovers  
in green paper, or sparkling glass.

But their kiss holds no charm.  
It only drains what little fluid remains  
on the trembling lips of our hearts."

These are the songs of Night  
who had forgotten Dawn:  
No sun remembered, no day expected.

An eternal, black darkness  
upon a being whose essence is light:  
forgotten by time; forwent by eternity.

It was during such a night,  
that as I roamed unceasingly,  
a bright star appeared above the sky.

I followed.  
It grew brighter, and brighter,  
revealing a secret my soul alone could remember.

It's secret was beauty.  
At first in a bar of chocolate:  
a beautiful taste.

Then in a sunset: a beautiful sight;  
next: a heavenly melody; a woman's touch;  
all reminding, arousing, my spirit's memory.

Until all the veils were burnt away,  
and my long-forgotten eyes opened...  
And there She stood.

She had a name, like any other,  
but it was spoken by a different tongue,  
in syllables with no sound.

Of a beauty unexampled,  
yet she was not extraordinary:  
like the sun's light, yet seen in an atom.

This is the mystery of the night's song:  
that day exists, though the sky be black;  
that faith is more real than a lover's touch.

For all shall be rolled up,  
and put away at the Judgement Hour.  
Yet her name alone will remain,  
carried on my lips to the very Door of Eternity.

When even the dust holds the Face of God,  
what else is left, but to admire?

Through the rose, man comprehend's beauty;  
when it withers and dies, what was taught lives on.

So too, the body inhabits this world for a while,  
and through experiences learns of reality.  
When that body withers and dies,  
  who can say the loss is complete?

A flower reaches to the sun:  
it never touches, but achieves.

The wind listens as we listen back;  
the sea understands, the stars speak.

  Take away arms, I love you;  
  take away legs, I love you;  
  take away eyes, I love you;  
  no more body,  
  no more name,  
  no more "you":  
  I love you.

You stand before my eyes  
ten thousand feet away  
and all I see  
is that lover inside me.

How can we be separate from ourselves?  
Run!  Escape the perfection of God!  
As I watch, to behold the impossible.

I say: let them burn the Mona Lisa!  
cast down the Parthenon!  
and raze the pyramids of Egypt.

Any time man stands  
in the shadow of what he creates,  
we are bound for poverty.

Beneath me, far below, the small houses  
are like memories of a model landscape:

The motionless blue of the ocean seems painted on,  
the buildings are too neatly arranged,  
the roads with their little cars  
might as well be battery operated.

Level with my sight is the hearth-fire of the Pacific sunset;  
and the cloud cover is a cottony blanket  
laying to rest all the tiny people  
in their tiny homes below.

Tear apart the world's veil:  
behind it lies a blinding light.

Then, are we blind from ignorance,  
or sightless from knowledge?

Outwardly the result is the same;  
inwardly, the difference is salvation.

Where is the ode's cry,  
  or the eagle's stare of wonder?

The world of things has caught me up  
  on a river running rapidly,  
making everything around me a blur, and myself  
  anxious of what's coming next.

Years ago I made friends with the shadows on my wall,  
heard dreams in the rustling of the wind,  
and remembered everything with a sharpness  
  that made my eyes water.

And now, friends are hard to come by,  
dreams are forgotten,  
and memories -- are only a memory.

Perhaps "benefit" is a word  
whose meaning we've considered poorly.

The deepest part of my being  
I have never shared with anyone;  
so that between me and the world  
there is a fiction -- called "self" --  
which interacts according to our  
puerile desires of security and pleasantry.

For they would have me believe  
that my spirit is either non-existent,  
or too fragile,  
to withstand the burden of such a revelation.

To hell with them.

What kind of life are they living?

Looking at a blank sheet  
seeing every discourse  
as if graven in strokes of light;  
the Pen still upon the page  
the Hand trailing tears --  
wept from a Face  
beyond all vision.

We all struggle with the mind duel,  
grappling the what if, for the what may be.  
Softly, our voices in the heat of flame  
fearing what gasses we breath turning into fire.

There is a building world of rage,  
clawing its venom through the deep silence,  
cloaking the honesty of the heart:  
wary, we step on no ground... lest we wake.

See the dreamer in his troubled sleep?  
fits of terror; a twitching, wretched agony.  
He longs to rise though he grips the sheets so tight;  
his knuckles white, cotton bunched -- dreadful night!

I am the roar of the blessed lion!  
wandering in forests of the mind of every man.  
When I exit this maze you've meant to trap me,  
the wind will fall on all your empty tears.

When this poem started,  
it needed an ocean of ink to finish it.  
But I suppose one word is sufficient:

Be.

Which tells more --  
  a lover's silent eyes,  
  or her words?

The eyes of the soul  
  do not weep.  
Rather, they cry with the agony  
of a thousand lives remembered.

My life?  Your life?  
Is it so different when I sigh that deeply?

Or have I found in the mirror  
one facet of that largest gem of all:  
a precious stone they call humanity.

Remind me of that time  
when the brilliance of dreaming  
was the color of a sunrise;

When the rippling waters of Glacier Lake  
and the waves of blue  
that gathered at my toes

Were exactly what my heart desired,  
on a warm day,  
beneath the pale clouds of a lazy summer.

The see the summer sun  
riding on chariots of cloud  
needs only eyes.

But feeling the weeping of winter rains  
is more than bodies of flesh can do.

When do water drops become tears,  
or the sun's rays, a kiss of warmth?  
When is the cold Earth like a gift,  
bringing forth wonder and beauty and hope?

What eyes have I? that see in the world of atoms  
an image to set my soul on fire...

For somehow:  
  vibration yields sound,  
  energy, color,  
  warmth, love,  
  space, freedom,  
  and on a cold and starry night,  
  the whispers of the soul's vehement longing...

When did it happen?  
that a man of such ordinary thoughts  
found himself everywhere surrounded by Beauty.

When the soul's cry  
takes the form of words  
they call it poetry.

When the covers are up, and the bed is warm,  
and nature's just too far away,  
relinquish yourself to the poet's charm,  
and on wings of dream, be carried away...

My connection to the world  
is narrowing like a spindle's thread,  
turning over and over in my mind  
until its width is but a hair.

However, though much thinner,  
it is now far stronger,  
more cohesive,  
than its loosely made beginning:  
a chaotic piece of wool.

It is too late at night  
to write poems about every song.  
Let this, then, be the last,  
or rather the promise of other days to come.

We find in life so many things,  
so many songs,  
that for a time they must suffice  
as poems for themselves.

I am content with this;  
so long as the heart be open,  
and the mind, willing,  
to grasp the unending nature of beauty.

For it is in the "finality" of human thought  
that all terrible things begin.

That's the story,  
told by a lover's whimpers in the night,  
a remembrance of times past, before past, --  
alone in the unseen depths of pre-existence.

Now born, alight with fire like a lambent urge of light,  
seeking out our Guide's true Lamp -- Father of All --  
Oh lonely candle!

"How can utter nothingness  
gallop its steed in the field of pre-existence?"

Or the fleeting shadow, me,  
give account before the everlasting Sun...?

To poems I grant the like --  
the poetry of my heart --  
the cries of an oft-perturbèd soul.

Come my friend, let the night address us  
one last time  
before the End.

Someone has taken Dream  
and made it a clever thing  
they mold with their hands.

Myself, I only reach for the sky,  
watching the glimmer of sunlight  
between my fingertips,

And remember that Life  
still has far too much yet  
left to offer.

He paws the ground  
and finds it cold and solid;  
then pokes out a small, leathery head,  
and crawls to where the sun waits,  
glinting above the water.

In a dream, I imagine I've lost my arm.  
I'm walking past the city,  
past the towns,  
into the Blue Dandenong hills.

There, as I look back,  
it seems a miller had stoked a fire in the sea.  
The clouds form a satin robe:  
regal with violet, crimson and gold.

At the center of it, the royal heir:  
Prince of Life,  
fiery Lover of the Earth,  
the Gracious King.

It is too much beauty  
for one man to behold alone...

I lept to my feet,  
the will to applaud rushing through me  
so powerfully,  
so irresistibly,

That on that day  
where the grasses whisper,  
carried by the wind from where I stand,  
you could hear the sound of one hand clapping.

Virginia autumn, when leaves regale  
with their moving, wordless tale;

A language of signs, each painted leaf  
like golden hands gone pale.

What do they say, those flustered leaves,  
filling both hill and dale?

Perhaps they warn of winter's chill  
or its biting, frosty veil;

Or maybe they sorrow the loss of time  
and run to cloak the trail.

The wind... the wind...  
I remember the scent of the wind:  
catching up the leaves into whirls of  
  red and brown,  
gathering their varied fragrances of  
  oak and pine, dogwood and cherry.

Their colors were like apricots,  
mulberries or marmalade:  
Scattered bits of potpourri flame,  
floating along, swept by the wind...

Some only sit by  
to observe, to question,  
but not to delve.

But when those others come --  
the night is filled with dancing.

After candles go to sleep,  
and the sky shows its rainbow,  
I awake.

I'd forgotten the day, and who I was.  
A soul'd come to visit me.

There are two ways to become wealthy:

Either possess enough money  
  to gratify all your desires;  
or possess your desires,  
  hence gratifying your need for money.

When I try to write  
I consider millions of minds,  
and how each would judge the words I choose.  
How hard it is for a man to think alone;  
how impossible to guess the opinions of a multitude.

Gathering together its full force  
  of howling wind, whipped on  
  by the fiercest of riders -- Nature enraged --

It carries on, gorging itself on towns  
  of helpless, screaming victims  
  tossing aside the endeavors of man  
  more easily than a house of cards  
  that yields to the furious thump of its master's fist;

All blown aside, digested into small fragments:  
  the bones, dust and people's dreams:  
  disappeared like the breeze of a dead summer.

  Where are they now?  
  And where will I be,  
  if such a torrent lay its awful hands on my life?

Slowly wends the winding river,  
a snake asleep upon the land;  
its waters wave left and rightward  
its fish flash and bob and weave.

The winds whip, the surface ripples:  
the clear blue depths are gone;  
and the starlight dances madly  
as the waters move along.

Hungry eyes, wolf;  
you stare at me: your waiting meal.

I am as tasty inside  
as the supple flesh around my bones.

It only takes knowing  
how to gorge me open;  
but I'm sure your razor teeth  
are equal to that.

After many years of writing poetry, the experience has greatly changed for me. I would like to note down some of these changes, and a bit of what caused them.

In the beginning, I wrote poetry because it was fun to be clever with words. Since “poetry” seemed to connote rhyme, everything I wrote rhymed. It is a good thing that almost nothing from those days survives…

Not knowing what made poetry “good”, I neglected to realized this also meant I did not know what was “bad”. Like most beginning poets, since my own verses were nothing like the famous poets, I assumed they were terrible. I wrote trying to imitate, if not the exact sound, at least the “ring of authenticity” those poems had. Which of course achieved nothing of the sort, and just made me more frustrated.

A few lines from one of the poems of those days is:

Seven men, with seven needs, but fourteen wants and half the time,  
sit mindlessly before their doors, waiting for the set-down chime;  
that signifies the mothership's arrival on her destined course:  
the mission of that fated crew, a correlated Trojan Horse.

A society bereft of evil broke apart from common ways,  
founded on the Io moon, distant from the mind decay.  
Named themselves the LES: Society of the Leading Edge,  
their need for money, law and doubt falling into voids of age.

This mode of writing continued for several years, in which I knew that I was not writing with “my voice”, but I did not know how to find it. It is funny, now knowing how simple it is, that despite every effort it escaped me. For the real blockage was not in finding my voice, but accepting the voice that I had.

Once all the bad rhyming started to sound too awful, I avoided the ugliness of the problem by moving to free verse. It was many years before I started to write rhyming poems again. Free verse seemed to have an air of originality that was attractive – and also deceptive.

It continued that I wrote bad free verse several years, not knowing how to progress. I strove for lines that had something of greatness in them, that sounded as if they could be great. But what is great? By why standard do we measure it? Knowing that greatness often defies the standards of the day, I was sometimes impressed by lines that did not sound good at all, but because they were odd or unique. Yet none of those poems could stand the test of time. I read them today and they appear lifeless, as though grasping at something they could not achieve.

After thirteen years of sporadic writing, nothing much changed. Then came a time when I started to think about quality, and about what makes good things good. It would lengthen this essay too much to cover those ideas here. The basic summation is that something is good if you find it to be good. That is, does it please you?

This turned out to be revolutionary in terms of my writing, because it undoes the need for a standard entirely. Instead of writing verses that longed for something outside myself, I begin to pen whatever it made me happy to write. This in turn made the experience of writing enjoyable, and I learned my first genuine lesson about poetry: that it satisfies the soul in its own way.

Here is the first poem I ever wrote without reflecting on how it might sound to others. It was a joy to write, and changed my experience of poetry from that day forward:

Without the light  
it would not be seen;  
without eyes  
it would not be seen.

Between these two forms of nothing  
a being of phenomenon  
neither in the object  
or the eye or the light.

But there... a subtle shading of rose  
shaped into a smile  
beneath eyes  
like my own hope given form.

There... what is that shaft  
pushing its way into the labors of my heart?  
ruining the moment's peace  
and offering something  
I would live without peace for  
day upon day again.

Between two different kinds of void:  
a thing to die for.

After this poem, I learned what “voice” is: Whatever gives expression to your soul. Now I write, think, edit, rewrite, until each line rings like a bell. When it resonates with my state of being, I consider it complete. Sometimes I cannot find the words I need to make a poem ring. Sometimes it is not hard at all. It seems to depend on a great many factors. But the quality of “ringing” has to be there, or the experience of writing does not fulfill itself. It feels like not being able to express a thought clearly.

With the freedom of this idea, I realized quickly that free verse is just one way of writing, and that in fact I prefer rhyme most of the time. Most of what I write now has some sort of rhyming structure, because it makes the poem more enjoyable to me. I even started to play with rhyme, to experiment in different ways, seeking an ever richer “tone”.

The first experiment along these lines was inter-line rhymes, in addition to rhymes in the usual places. These are unexpected rhymes that add music to a verse without creating too much of a pattern. For example, from an excerpt:

The seals below bump their heads,  
the bears in white coats rumble their hunger;  
against the black night, the white fox howls  
and the rabbit hears him in the echoes of sleep.

Here “rumble” and “hunger” are tied by the vowel in the stressed position; “night” and “white” in the second line; “hears” and “sleep” in the last. The creation of such rhymes is not always done consciously, but I do notice and improve them while editing, trying to achieve a musical feel without burdening the poem.

The next kind of rhyme is done using assonance and alliteration in much the same way:

A family of ill ones  
still tucked in their beds,  
sipping coughsyrup cocktails  
to lighten their heads,

Here, “ill” and “still” are rhymed, as well as the expected “beds” and “heads”. The sound of “sipping” is meant to fit with “still”, making the verse feel more coherent when read. “coughsyrup” and “cocktails” are obvious, while the “to” of the last verse is paired with the strong “tucked” in the second verse.

It is harder to make these rhymes than end-of-line rhymes, because they must be subtle. I give up if a word cannot be found that both contributes to the meaning and the song; but already I have been surprised by the flexibility and richness of the English language, and how many things may be done with it. Being surprised by one’s own poetry has been one of the best parts of writing it.

The next type of rhyme is much more difficult. I call it “hidden rhyme”. British and Australian readers will recognize it, due to their “rhyming slang”. Basically it consists of finding a word that ryhmes with another word not present in the poem, but unconsciously obvious because of the poem’s meaning. For example:

The lilt of your gentle voice,  
its dulcet tones,  
its warm, mellifluous sound...  
to a man's ears, what balm,  
what anodyne peace;  
I linger there in memory  
until the pain of absence  
grows profound.

This poem is about the sound of a woman’s voice, and the pain I feel when she is not around. That is, the pain is due to her silence. It would be poor (or rather, too perfect) to write:

I linger there awhile  
until the silence  
grows profound.

Written this way, “in memory” is changed to “awhile”, to balance with the syllable count of the middle line and to construct a rhyme between “awhile” and “silence”. But the new verse is too obvious in its meaning: Of course there is silence if I’m writing a poem. Since silence is often described as “profound”, the mere fact of using that adjective is enough to suggest to an educated reader that silence is meant. This frees me to use a different image, while still protraying the painful silence:

I linger there in memory  
until the pain of absence  
grows profound.

Now “absence” is rhymed with “silence” – even though “silence” appears nowhere in the poem. “memory” is used to better dsecribe where I am lingering, and because it has a softer vowel, allowing the strong sound of “pain” to come through. But none of these sounds are so sharp as to obscure the final “profound”, which refers clearly to the earlier “sound” – the subject of the poem. This verse is also a bit overful, which makes it seem to falter a bit. This effect is talked about later.

There are other hidden rhymes in my poems, but I soon forget them, and the experience becomes unconscious for me as well. But what they add is a suggestion of depth and richer meaning than is presented by the words themselves. I find this satisfying.

The most recent technique has been to play with broken rhythm. This is when I intentionally use a less perfect syllable pattern to make a line seem more “humble” with respect to another.44 For example:

Recall me to myself, for I soon forget  
once thoughts of you have cast their net.

The first line of this couplet has too many syllable (four more than the following), and when scanning the verse feels awkward. Yet this awkwardness is intentional: because the first line talks about me, and the second about the one I love. When read slowly, the weakness of the first line makes the writer seem awkward, troubled, unsure; while the brevity of the second line drives home exactly what is making him feel that way: “thoughts of you”.

Making the language used reflect the emotional content of what is written causes parts of the poem to seem imperfect, in order that the poem as a whole can achieve a higher perfection. The goal is that the reading of the poem provokes a sighing, wishful quality – so I play with techniques to give the poem more of this. Dissonant rhymes can help that effect, by emphasizing or enhancing the beauty of a contrasting euphonous line. It is like the effect of placing a flower in an empty room to heighten one’s awareness of space.

Some of these latter techniques I borrow from looking at life, and the ways nature and man-made creations achieve a greater effect than the individual parts. A poem with perfect lines is fine, and sometimes had a coherence and overall effect that is quite pleasant; but other times too much perfection is stilted and lifeless: just as real people are never so perfect. Little smudges, combined with invisible or other structures in the poem, present a texture and richness that defy the reader’s perception, but all the moreso affect his soul.

Lastly, I am finding that love for the subject of a poem – whether nature, a person, or an idea – contributes more than anything to its final quality. If the heart that writes a poem is lifeless, often in my case the result is lifeless. Writing about a beloved subject is like pouring that love into a vessel of words. They come more easily, and the various techniques I’ve learned can be applied without as much conscious effort. Like mastery at anything, once you have the basics perfected, your mind understands how to follow the bidding of your heart.

I leave with one of my favorite couplets, recently written:

Where banners once flew in proud disdain  
a king now weeps for his kingdom's bane.

There is a vowel rhyme between “proud” and “now”, and a very subtle consonant rhyme between “flew” and “weeps”. The basic rhyme of “disdain” and “bane” is pronounced, with the effect that it makes the wistfulness in the other syllables more pronounced, as if to convey the image of an airy castle under attack. Similarly, the “banners” that once flew (a strong word) are insensibly compared to the new-found weakness of the “king” (a weak word). “king” is also repeated to emphasize the plaintiveness at what has been lost. But the loss is not so terrible: the king has fallen in love with his conqueror; and so the final “bane” is the word that sticks in memory. There is even a subtle pairing between “banner” and “bane”, to suggestive a transformation of interest on the king’s part.

Not all of these correspondences were made consciously. But as I mentioned above, the more one writes – and especially about a beloved subject – the more his mastered techniques will come into play without thought. However, I do notice many of these things in the intermediate results, and use that consciousness of them to ensure the effect is right, and that the poetry “sings”.

At the end of it all, it matters only that what you write makes you happy, or expresses your soul and relieves it of its solitude. Some of my recent verses I have even started to memorize, because it causes me joy to recite them. That, I think, is the true test of one’s poetry.

Picture you’re in a 7-11, and the clerk steps out of the store (unlikely, but just humor me). There you are, with all that candy in front of you and nobody watching. Do you pocket any? I can imagine you saying, “No”. Ok, let’s say I’m asking you to do it anyway. Would you still say no? Where is the limit, when would you would finally do it? Would you never do it?

This agency, whatever it is that prevents you from taking what is not yours, is the fear of God. It stays your hand from violating His Will. It’s deeper even than conscience, which most people feel only after they’ve committed a crime.

This kind of fear is a protector, a guardian, against one’s own insufficiency of understanding. Take the Fast for example. Many people don’t comprehend the wisdom of the Fast, but they observe it anyway. Why? What about when no one is around, why do they still not eat? Some shrink back from shame, or fear of being punished. But most are simply averse to breaking their Covenant with God. It’s not emotional terror that strikes them, but a fear much deeper, and much stabler. It’s like being afraid of violating your own integrity. Emotional terror can be countered by sufficient will, but the fear of God is a true fortress for the spirit:

The fear of God is the shield that defendeth His Cause, the buckler that enableth His people to attain to victory. It is a standard that no man can abase, a force that no power can rival. By its aid, and by the leave of Him Who is the Lord of Hosts, they that have drawn nigh unto God have been able to subdue and conquer the citadels of the hearts of men.47

When one comes to appreciate the Fast, they can observe it for love of God and admiration of His beauty. But until then – and this is true of any of the Laws – the believer is stuck between mystery and enlightenment, and the fear of God is their only refuge. Since obedience itself is one of the means by which we grow spiritually, it is paramount that we understand this concept.

In formulating the principles and laws a part hath been devoted to penalties which form an effective instrument for the security and protection of men. However, dread of the penalties maketh people desist only outwardly from committing vile and contemptible deeds, while that which guardeth and restraineth man both outwardly and inwardly hath been and still is the fear of God. It is man’s true protector and his spiritual guardian. It behoveth him to cleave tenaciously unto that which will lead to the appearance of this supreme bounty. Well is it with him who giveth ear unto whatsoever My Pen of Glory hath proclaimed and observeth that whereunto he is bidden by the Ordainer, the Ancient of Days.48

There are many times in my past when I saw myself as a “Bahá’í for lack of opportunity”. I used to bemoan this, wondering how I could be true to my Lord when circumstances determined my faithfulness. The answer is the fear of God. If I wed myself to that ideal, and properly fear God, I will learn true faithfulness, despite my frailty and lack of comprehending the wisdom of all of His laws. By working on this one area, I give myself the freedom and time to develop my understanding, without worrying that I will fail due to lack of knowledge. I no longer have to depend on agreement with the Law to abide by that Law!

Does this mean I crush my mind under a weight of obedience? Think of it this way: If one believes in the truth, they would never want to betray that truth. Some believe in truth, but lie under pressure. How can one be true to the truth, in defiance of their own emotional frailty? The fastest way is to identify one’s self, psychologically, with the ideal of truthfulness, making dishonesty appear as a destruction of their self. This is what the medieval knights did, when they accepted the code of righteous conduct: death before dishonor. Did they have to fully grasp the meaning of honor, in all its implications? No, they merely recognized that without honor, they were comprising their existence as men.

This is the fear of God, to realize that obedience to the Covenant is the foundation of our soul’s well-being, and that to violate it is no less tragic than for a knight of the Round Table to accept dishonor. The foundation of our spiritual life is our recognition of God and our obedience to the Covenant. When a transgression is as fearful as plunging a knife into our own heart, I think we’ve begun to fear God properly.

But do we cower in fear at the thought of stabbing ourselves, all day every day? No, we never think of it at all. In fact, the healthy fear of authority we all possess – which causes us to obey traffic lights and not shop-lift – never occurs to us as an emotional fear. I don’t think the fear of God should either. So it remains true that “Love never dwelleth in a heart possessed by fear” – the kind of fear that worries or terrorizes, not the kind that protects one from willful self-destruction.

What is a Bahá’í?

What is a Bahá’í? What differentiates a Bahá’í from anyone else in society? Or a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim? Is it moral behavior, a set of high ideals, particular characteristics, certain beliefs? These are shared in common by many groups, both religious and not. So when we think of a Bahá’í, what are the identifying qualities?

Christ referred to His disciples as “the salt of the earth”. What is the meaning of this salt? When we look at the material world, everything it possessed comes from dust. All the time, money, ideas, institutions, resources, etc., are generated or mined by the bodies and intellects that abound on the Earth. There has never been a shortage of these.

There is a quality which has nothing whatsoever to do with the dust. It does not issue from it, and does not return to it. It is not part of our animal heritage, is not found in a perfect body, or heart, or mind. It is a quality that cannot exist in nature unless a pure heart manifests it. This quality Christ called “salt”.

Bahá’u’lláh describes human reality as a mirror. Its capacity to shine is what makes possibility the manifestation of divine realities in the world. He writes:

O My Brother! A pure heart is as a mirror; cleanse it with the burnish of love and severance from all save God, that the true sun may shine within it and the eternal morning dawn. Then wilt thou clearly see the meaning of “Neither doth My earth nor My heaven contain Me, but the heart of My faithful servant containeth Me.”56

Human beings are thus capable of bringing into reality, and worldly projects, a quality which can appear in any other way. Those who bring this quality into the world are regarded as the beloved of God. In each age and century they have varying names, but such have been called Jew, Buddhist, Bahá’í.

Our gift to the world

If this is our unique capacity, it also represents our power, our gift, the one thing needed by the world above all else, which the world cannot acquire by itself. Even the social and ethical teachings of the Manifestations are not enough in themselves. Shoghi Effendi wrote:

Laws and institutions, as viewed by Bahá’u’lláh, can become really effective only when our inner spiritual life has been perfected and transformed. Otherwise religion will degenerate into a mere organization, and becomes a dead thing.57

It is this quality of spirit that deserves our focus, because nothing can proceed without it, while all things will find their way to solution when it appears. The National Spiritual Assembly said, “The millions of Americans who are searching for spiritual truth are searching for traces of God’s love.”58

This spirit is of the nature of all things good, joyful, loving, true. All sadness and misery come from the material, as `Abdu’l-Bahá spoke:

If we suffer it is the outcome of material things, and all the trials and troubles come from this world of illusion.59

Whereas He told us “the spiritual world bestows only the joy!” So joy and radiance are the signs, the tokens of this spirit. They become the measure by which we can judge the success of our spiritual endeavors. And they relate directly to the value of what we achieve in this life.

The material world, being the abode of dust, abounds in dust. All the wealth mankind could ever need springs from the ground itself. There is nothing we can add that will not in the end decay and return. The world does not need more wealth, or an ever finer parade of forms displaying that wealth. It needs what it lacks, the salt. And if we neglect to bring it, Christ asks, “And if the salt hath lost its savor, wherewith shall it be salted?” In this sense, we are the bringers of light, the bearers of glad-tidings, the heralds of grace; we reflect by our hearts the true wealth from God, the “manna from heaven”.

If this spirit, this joy and love and warmth is so profound – the defining characteristic of the servants of God, by whatever religious name – then our discussion should revolve around it, and aim toward it. Worldly problems will never cease; sometimes discussing them makes them worse! Whereas when we have joy, happiness, it is often the case that the material gives way:

If we suffer it is the In times of joy our strength is more vital, our intellect keener, and our understanding less clouded. We seem better able to cope with the world and to find our sphere of usefulness.60

The present culture

Does our present culture foster joy, engender the spirit? This would define a “Bahá’í” atmosphere, according to the previous discussion. We know that prevailing social norms affect us, but do we understand how? The current culture might be called a Christian culture with a slight Bahá’í twist.

Changing the pattern of activity

Doing less can result in achieving more, in the mathematics of joy. Spirituality is not like weighing ingredients to measure the recipe; this was shown in the example of the loaves and the fish. When there is true spirit, even raw flour is a king’s meal.

Although to outward view, the wayfarers in this Valley may dwell upon the dust, yet inwardly they are throned in the heights of mystic meaning; they eat of the endless bounties of inner significances, and drink of the delicate wines of the spirit.61

My recommendation is that we follow closely Bahá’u’lláh admonition:

Lay not upon your souls that which will weary them and weigh them down, but rather what will lighten and uplift them, so that they may soar on the wings of the Divine verses towards the Dawning-place of His manifest signs; this will draw you nearer to God, did ye but comprehend.62

The prevailing culture of guilt and perfection retard our growth. The soul has wings; in joy let it fly.

The Buddhist Writings say that there is no individual self which is gaining, or achieving; only a combination of elements with a certain appearance, from which stem actions and results. These results propagate through the world of being, according to their efficacy, conducing either to its betterment or its detriment. They endure in the sense that friends and progeny will continue to play out the thought forms and actions that were begun by the original doer.

The doer, however, is not a concrete entity with his own existence per se. Rather, he is a “recognized” entity, just as a table is recognized by having four legs, and a tripod by having three. The reality of the table is in its substance and appearance, whereas the concept “table” is applied afterward, and serves only the role of nomenclature. By naming it a table, this does not create a “table essence”, just as by naming myself “John” I do not create an ego essence. “John” is a term applied to an aggregate, evolving pattern of arms, legs, ideas, and words, which (who) generates actions that result in an impact on the world.

This confluence of diverse elements which have cohered under the title of a “person”, strives toward perfection. If the idea of perfection is misunderstood, the progression will be downward; if it is properly understood, it will tend upward. The choices that it makes in this progression are the very choices that produce the actions and results which propagate and endure according to their nature.

But name does not convey essence. If an individual is a pattern of motives and constituents, and this pattern moves in a collective form – each part consulting with the other parts continuously – the result is a coherent pattern that can be distinguished from its background. The distinguished element is given a name, as happens with most things that can be differentiated from their environment. But a confusion arises when this aggregate of non-essential elements is misconstrued as having an essential reality solely because of its apparent cohesiveness.

What is the self then? Perhaps the self is like naming a cloud formation, and then becoming attached to it and fighting for its continuation in a particular form. No energy is ever lost in the Universe, and the water particles that make up a cloud are extremely difficult to destroy (atomically speaking). So there is no reason to fear a destruction of the essential reality of the cloud. But if it is the form or shape of a cloud that we are attached to, this is a thing extremely liable to change, and nearly impossible to preserve for anything longer than a short time.

And yet, the cloud is not non-existent: it is made up of a substance. Form is impossible without substance. So perhaps it is that this substance is our reality. While the outward form is changeable and evanescent, the inward element of which it is constructed is not so likely to change.

Man displays two categories of attributes from which one could deduce a substance. The first category is material appearance, and concerns the things he is made up of, and the particular actions he performs. These things could be classed as the elements perceivable to an animal, and hence belong to the animal kingdom (such as weight, color, shape, etc).

The second category concerns attributes which man partakes of alone, and experiences independently of the animals, such as honor, truthfulness, glory and beauty. Through right motivations we can express these using the medium of our actions. But through wrong motivations, everyone knows that an honorable act with a dishonorable heart is far from virtue.

Paired with our physical form there is a mental/emotional form that is constantly changing in configuration, and which might be called the “psychological self” – apart from the “self” that is our physical self. This psychological self also evolves, and constitutes patterns that are constantly changing toward perfection. If we imagine that this inward self is also unreal, and only a nominal description of an aggregate pattern of tendencies and strivings, then in order for it to exist it must also be formed from an essential substance which is real and does not disintegrate or change. This would be the “soul” of man, in the same way that water vapor could be called the “soul” of a cloud.

Imagining further a sky populated by unique cloud souls, distinguished by the particular water molecules that make up their form. While these may change form and achieve a lesser or higher degree in the sky, they are never destroyed. Through change, they may acquire a beautiful shape, or they may fall to the earth and have to endure many days in the soil before being taken up into the sky again to assume other forms. In this metaphor, there is a substantial reality, and even distinct, perdurable essences, but no self or permanent “image”.

Imagine as another example the life-cycle of a particular atom. It begins independently, existing as hydrogen in the vacuum of space. Then it may fall to Earth and become bonded with oxygen to form water. If this water is pure, it may be used by a plant to build up part of its cell wall. If this cell is healthy, an animal may consume it for food. If the animal finds the cell salutary, it will include it in its tissues. If the animal is in good condition, a man may slaughter it for a meal. If the flesh agrees with the man’s bodily needs, he may make it part of his own frame. If useful, the body may take it up into the nervous system, to aid in the functioning of the brain. This service might facilitate in the generation of a noble thought, and better the virtue of the man. The man may then extend his hand in service to humanity, and thereby win his way into paradise.

Otherwise, the atom might never have been attracted by the gravity of the Earth, and remained alone and desolate in the wastes of space; or at each step it might have fallen into a lesser condition of existence, and not been deemed worthy of becoming part of a higher reality. In both situations, however, although the “name”, the “form” and the “station” of the atom may have continued to change such that its “personality” at each stage was entirely unrelated to its original condition, yet it’s essential reality as an atom of hydrogen – single, indivisible, indestructible according to physical laws – was never altered or diminished. What changed was the role it had, and the part it played in effecting a transformation toward Godly attributes in the world in which it was a participant.

Had the atom choice, and if its choice had led it toward becoming a servant to the man’s reality, one might say that it had achieved a certain perfection. Imagine further that it were made cognizant of the benefits imparted by that participation, and in a sense received the blessings of the man’s activity, even though far too lowly – according ot its own reality – to be called responsible for them. What joy there would be for that atom! But if the atom’s choices had led it to become a sickness to the plant or animal, it would have ended in the dust, to be trampled down by a world not made any better by the atom’s efforts, and which perhaps it might have aided had it only willed to do so. Where is the plant now to absorb that atom into its tissues? Where is the animal that would consider eating dust? When will a man walk by who is willing to place dirt in his mouth? Until, by the grace of God, some reconfiguration of the world occurs by which the atom is given another chance to continue upward in the cycle of life, it will be forced to endure and suffer according to its own unwillingness to obey: powerless to move itself from its lowly condition.

Like a drop which becomes part of the ocean, and is not destroyed but can never be found again; perhaps in this way were are meant to dissolve ourselves into the arms of the Beloved. Man is like a leaf which has blown from the Tree of Life, cast about by the tempestuous winds. Perhaps his only hope is to yield himself to the soil, submissive, lowly, there to be consumed and disintegrated. And thus shorn of self and reduced to his true elements, he may finally be reclaimed by the Tree who bore him. In this there is no destruction evident, only transformation toward the goal of nearness.

A drop of water is the best source of analogy I’ve found: A drop is made of the essence of water, which exists within the ocean. This essence, no matter how dissolved the drop might ever become, is never destroyed. When the drop leaves the ocean, it acquires independent form, but nonetheless its reality as a drop of water is unchanged by this separation. Should it rejoin the ocean, it will give up its momentary independence, but its essence will remain as it has always been. For the drop, there are a million questions to be asked: size, shape, location, etc.; but for the water, there is only one: is it near or far from the Source of its Being.

So, there is a “self” which is the separate drop, and then there is the God-created self, or soul, which is the water that constitutes the drop. Sartre and Krishnamurti, I believe, are referring to the former definition when they say that the self does not exist (i.e., it has apparent form only, not essence). As `Attár writes:

In ceasing to exist separately it retains its beauty. It exists and non-exists. How can this be? The mind cannot conceive it.

This second view of self-which-is-not-self is what allows the Bahá’í teachings about the soul to agree with the Buddhist teachings that there is no self at all. I am including an essay below, written a little while ago, that further investigates this theme.

Despite all this, our seeming “essence” is still contingent, a borrowed existence that derives its being from the One Source. “self” is a mirage, while self is the real image; and yet, without the constant shining of the Light, even that image would cease to exist. If we become like moths, we will care only about the Light, and not the images it illumines or makes possible – and certainly not the shadows they seem to cast.

The thought of this station causes fear, and a struggle to reclaim a “foundation” for our being, since such selflessness implies an unwavering trust that in the midst of this absolute nothingness (for us), all is glorious (in Him). As long as we lay claim to any sort of being, I wonder how we can ever appreciate the true meaning of Being. And yes, God has granted us an eternal soul that we might forever know and worship Him; but even this does not truly exist on the uttermost planes of His being.

Were the eye of discernment to be opened, it would recognize that in this very state, they [the Manifestations of God] have considered themselves utterly effaced and non-existent in the face of Him Who is the All-Pervading, the Incorruptible. Methinks, they have regarded themselves as utter nothingness, and deemed their mention in that Court an act of blasphemy. For the slightest whispering of self, within such a Court, is an evidence of self-assertion and independent existence. In the eyes of them that have attained unto that Court, such a suggestion is itself a grievous transgression. How much more grievous would it be, were aught else to be mentioned in that Presence, were man’s heart, his tongue, his mind, or his soul, to be busied with anyone but the Well-Beloved, were his eyes to behold any countenance other than His beauty, were his ear to be inclined to any melody but His voice, and were his feet to tread any way but His way.64

When I think only of my own awareness (per se), I realize it has only one attribute: nearness or remoteness from God. Otherwise, even its seeming independence from others is simply a token of God’s limitless powers of creation, and a sign of His to be wondered at.

In the Qur’án, verse 76:5, we find:

‘inna al-abraara yashrabuuna min ka’siN kaana mizaaju-haa kaafuuraN (Verily the righteous shall drink from a wine-cup that has been tempered with camphor.)

The literal translation of the Qur’ánic verse is:

‘inna (verily, thus) al-abraara (the ones who are just) yashrabuuna (shall drink, imbibe (from sharaba)) min ka’siN (from a wine-cup (i.e., cup filled with wine)) kaana mizaaju-haa (that has been tempered (from mizaaj, temperament)) kaafuuraN ((by) camphor)

Historically, camphor was an extract with many uses, which was added to wine to enhance its flavor and bouquet. Since it is also rumored to quiet the passions, it has been linked with detachment from the world, and being freed from the vagaries of the heart.

In Persian literature, the word “camphor” is used with four meanings (besides the oil/plant itself): to convey whiteness, fragrance, something with a cooling effect, and a lack of virility (because the passions have been cooled). For example:

tuuda’-i kaafuur – A heap of snow; a fair skin; a white head.

khurda’-i kaafuur – (crumbs of camphor), The stars.

kaafuur khwurdan – To eat camphor (an expression used to imply deficiency of virility).

kaafuur-baar – (raining camphor) Anything cold or fragrant; snowing.

may-i kaafuur – Camphorated wine (which is done to “cool” it).

One Qur’ánic commentator writes:

The root of the word camphor that has been used in this context means suppressing and covering up. This is an indication that they have drunk of the cup of cutting asunder from the world and turning to God with such sincerity that their love of the world has been cooled down. All emotions are generated by the ideas of the heart and when the heart withdraws far away from improper thoughts and has no concern with them, the emotions are subdued till they disappear altogether. In this verse God Almighty desires to convey that those who turn wholly to Him cast aside their passions and their hearts become cool to worldly activities and their emotions are covered up and suppressed as poisonous matter is suppressed by camphor.76

This meaning resonates with Bahá’u’lláh’s reference to the above verse when discussing freedom from worldly limitations:

He who hath attained this station [of True Poverty and Absolute Nothingness] is sanctified from all that pertaineth to the world. Wherefore, if those who have come to the sea of His presence are found to possess none of the limited things of this perishable world, whether it be outer wealth or personal opinions, it mattereth not. For whatever the creatures have is limited by their own limits, and whatever the True One hath is sanctified therefrom; this utterance must be deeply pondered that its purport may be clear. “Verily the righteous shall drink of a winecup tempered at the camphor fountain.” If the interpretation of “camphor” become known, the true intention will be evident. This state is that poverty of which it is said, “Poverty is My glory.”77

If the interpretation of camphor here referred is “releasing man from bondage to limited things”, it fits nicely.

Bahá’u’lláh also brings up this verse when discussing the necessary qualities for apprehending the meaning of the Holy Writings:

Hence, it is clear and manifest that by the words “the sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven” is intended the waywardness of the divines, and the annulment of laws firmly established by divine Revelation, all of which, in symbolic language, have been foreshadowed by the Manifestation of God. None except the righteous shall partake of this cup, none but the godly can share therein. “The righteous shall drink of a cup tempered at the camphor fountain.”78

When He says, “None except the righteous shall partake of this cup”, I believe He is referring to the cup of Revelation, where “partake” means to understand its real intent. And this to the righteous because they drink from the camphor fountain (that is, they’ve purged their hearts from worldly affections). This theme is addressed later when He writes:

The understanding of His words and the comprehension of the utterances of the Birds of Heaven are in no wise dependent upon human learning. They depend solely upon purity of heart, chastity of soul, and freedom of spirit.79

Likewise, `Abdu’l-Bahá makes reference to the above verse in the following prayer:

Call Thou to life those who dwell in their tombs, warn Thou the prideful, make happiness world-wide, send down Thy crystal waters, and in the assemblage of manifest splendours, pass round that cup which is `tempered at the camphor fountain.’80

The idea of detachment would render the meaning of this prayer as “Make all to be forgetful of the world, purified from lesser interests, and mindful entirely of Thee”. And in another tablet He writes:

Therefore must the desire of the friends be this, to bring together and unify all peoples, that all may receive a generous drink of this pure wine from this cup that is `tempered at the camphor fountain.’81

A possibly more explicit reference to “camphor” is given in the following:

Muhammad-Hádí was loyal always, and he accounted all things other than God’s good pleasure as fiction and fable, nothing more. Blessed is he for this gift bestowed upon him, glad tidings to him for the place to which he shall be led; may it do him good, this wine-cup tempered at the camphor fountain, and may all his strivings meet with thanks and be acceptable to God.82

Lastly, `Abdu’l-Bahá reports one of the Bábí martyrs as offering these words in a prayer immediately before his execution:

Thanks be unto Thee that Thou didst succor me and confirm me and didst give me to drink of this cup that was tempered at the camphor fountain83

The next verse begins with “`aynaN”, meaning “a spring, source, fountain (also ‘eye’)”. Whether this fountain is related to camphor is unclear.

Bahá’u’lláh refers to this verse – “a fount whereof the near unto God shall drink” – in the Valley of Unity, where He seems to describe the sufficiency experienced when a person has purified their heart from limitations and God’s light begins to reflect therein.

So, the righteous drink of the camphorated wine, and they also drink from a fountain whose flow increases by the drinking. My previous reading would link these two with: “This state is that poverty of which it is said, ‘Poverty is My glory.”’

Both “kaafuuraN” and “aynaN" are in the accusative case, kaafuuraN because it is the noun related to "temper", and "aynaN” because it is the object of the following phrase (“from which the righteous shall drink…”). My Arabic does not go much farther than this, though, so if there is truly a grammatical connection between these verses, I cannot see it. Can anyone else assist?

I thought perhaps Bahá’u’lláh may have joined “kaafuuraN aynaN" (a camphor fountain), but in the original Kitáb-i-Íqán He does not quote the word "aynaN”. The Guardian decided to translate “fountain” into the reference. And as I understand it, the wording would have to have been “aynaN kaafuuraN" if kaafuur were to be read as an adjective of aynaN. “A fountain of camphor” would have been “`ayna kaafuuriN”.

Question: What do you think that the camphor fountain refers to?

I apologize that my previous posts were unclear. I am examining the possibility that camphor refers to purification and detachment, and that as a result, one gains access to the heavenly wine of Divine Intention (expressed most directly in the Covenant). Perhaps all of our suggested meanings inter-relate.

I also wish to consider the agency of camphor, which has more uses than fragrance alone. If “camphor fountain” is taken only to mean obedience to the Covenant, without reference to the agency or qualities of that obedience, then the following paragraph seems to end in a non-sequitor:

This is the purpose underlying the symbolic words of the Manifestations of God. Consequently, the application of the terms “sun” and “moon” to the things already mentioned hath been demonstrated and justified by the text of the sacred verses and the recorded traditions. Hence, it is clear and manifest that by the words “the sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven” is intended the waywardness of the divines, and the annulment of laws firmly established by divine Revelation, all of which, in symbolic language, have been foreshadowed by the Manifestation of God. None except the righteous shall partake of this cup, none but the godly can share therein. “The righteous shall drink of a cup tempered at the camphor fountain.”

At this point in the Íqán, Bahá’u’lláh is discussing the true meanings of the heavenly allusions, and why the divines have failed to perceive them. Now, just above He says “… all of which, in symbolic language, have been foreshadowed by the Manifestation of God”. Then immediately after that He says, “None except the righteous shall partake of this cup.”

He does not mention the Covenant here (or in the paragraphs surrounding), nor the attractive qualities of the Word of God. When He says “this cup”, I believe He is referring to the preceding discussion by use of the demonstrative adjective. He then links “this cup” with the wine-cup mentioned by Muhammad.

Taken in context, “this cup” seems to refer to the true intention of “the symbolic words of the Manifestations of God”, and that “none except the righteous may partake of this cup”. Why? He gives the necessary qualifications later in the same text:

The understanding of His words and the comprehension of the utterances of the Birds of Heaven… depend solely upon purity of heart, chastity of soul, and freedom of spirit.

To “partake of this cup”, we need purity, chastity, freedom, all of which imply sanctity (from impurity, defilement and bondage).

Taking the literary uses of “camphor” into account, where it means either whiteness, fragrance or cooling of the passions (even botanical guides list it as an anaphrodisiac84), it would seem that the third usage fits very well: that the wine-cup tempered by camphor means that the vessel of the human heart has been freed from ephemeral attachments, at which point it is capable of apprehending the manifold meanings of the Word of God. Compare this with `Abdu’l-Bahá statement in the commentary on the Sur’ih of Rúm:

Were one of the sincere ones to turn to God in this most great Day and see with the purest vision, he would understand all of the realities and meanings of every word of the verses of God, the Eternal Protector – nay indeed, every letter and every dot.

Forgive my prolixity, but in reading camphor to indicate “true poverty” (inner poverty, abandoning all that is not of God), I am offering this interpretation of the Qur’ánic verse:

Verily, those who hold to justice85 have purified their hearts by a draught which has severed their connection to the world, and they now enjoy the crystal waters of communion with His will, a solace that increases with every drink.

Of course, since His will is made manifest most brightly in the Covenant, this would indeed refer to that “fountain”. I am excited to see this connection; both yours and Patti’s letters have helped me find it. Also, Patti’s reference of tempering to fire, which I too quickly passed over, leads to this additional interpretation of “a wine-cup tempered by camphor”:

The wine-cup is the human heart; after being tempered by the fire of tests and trials, it is touched by the cooling essence of that camphor which attracts souls into the sheltering shade of the Covenant86.

As Patti expressed, there are many layers here, and just playing around with these few has increased my excitement, and brought me into greater contact, with verses I had longed considered too mysterious to approach.

Just a brief note on the tempering of metal, since it figures into many different metaphors.

The process of tempering means to alter behavior or condition by contributing a new factor. This could be by admixture, pressure, heat, etc. Burning away impurities, by the way, would indicate a different process (purification).

In the case of steel, tempering acts as follows: When carbon is dissolved in liquid iron, and cools sufficiently to be malleable, it is in a state called “austentite”. If it is allowed to cool freely, it will become “pearlite”, which is very weak chemically. The steel molecules will be randomly arranged, and the metal is neither hard nor strong.

If austentitic steel is quenched – if its temperature is dropped quickly – it forces the steel molecules to solidify into structures they would not normally select. This is called “martensite” steel, and is very hard. However, it is also very brittle.

To make martensitic steel strong enough to be useful, while retaining hardness, it is necessary to “temper” the metal: literally to mellow its temperament: by heating it up to a temperature less than austentite, but enough to induce a structural change within the metal. The result is similar to Rebar embedded in concrete: the iron is fortified by a latticework of ferrous carbide molecules within the steel.

Once the tempered metal has cooled, it is both hard and strong, which is the whole purpose for adding the carbon to iron in the first place (since iron is neither hard nor strong).

Qualities of the wayfarer

It has been mentioned before that Bahá’u’lláh gives three qualities as the sole requisites for fathoming the depths of divine reality: “… purity of heart, chastity of soul, and freedom of spirit.”95

In addition, as a soul progresses, he acquires – or discovers – new qualities within himself as he ascends through the veils that oppress our discovery of Truth.

I find evidence that a soul must embody four spiritual qualities before he can make his way through the Valley of Unity. All of these are to be found in the Short Obligatory Prayer; they are: knowledge, devotion, powerlessness and poverty. The obligatory prayer reads:

I bear witness, O my God, that Thou hast created me to know Thee and to worship Thee. I testify, at this moment, to my powerlessness and to Thy might, to my poverty and to Thy wealth.

There is none other God but Thee, the Help in Peril, the Self-Subsisting.

These qualities are certainly meant, not in a materialistic sense, but a spiritual one. By knowledge is meant spiritual knowledge, or insight into divine mysteries; by devotion is meant a whole-hearted praise not comprehended by words, but only signified by them; by poverty is meant spiritual poverty, independent of the possession or lack of material means; and by powerlessness, something other than the absence of mortal sovereignty is meant.

Three out of these four qualities we have already encountered by the time we reach the shores of the Valley of Unity. That is, in the Valley of Search we learn about the nature of poverty, of divesting ourselves of all things: love, hate, knowledge, “whatever he hath seen, and heard, and understood”: that we might prepare ourselves to recognize the glory of God’s Manifestation when we encounter Him.

The state of mind resulting from such poverty is one of complete receptiveness, of extreme sensitivity to one’s surroundings and to the evidences of truth or falsehood inherent in any statement. Modern parlance calls this “a learning mode”.

In the Valley of Love, we are taught the secrets of devotion, and the ways of a lover’s hope and despair. And in the Valley of Knowledge, our most recent field of discovery, we are educated in the varied forms and mysteries of divine wisdom. This leaves but one quality unachieved, as found in the daily prayer: powerlessness.

If there really is a relationship here, between our daily acknowledgement and the course of the Valleys leading to Contentment and Wonderment, and from thence to the supernal station of faná, it follows that powerlessness is a spiritual quality we will find indicated in the Valley of Unity.

Already, I have found a few intimations of this theme:

He seeth in himself neither name nor fame nor rank, but findeth his own praise in praising God.

He beholdeth in his own name the name of God; to him, “all songs are from the King,” and every melody from Him.

He sitteth on the throne of “Say, all is from God,” and taketh his rest on the carpet of “There is no power or might but in God.”

For thus the Master of the house hath appeared within His home, and all the pillars of the dwelling are ashine with His light. And the action and effect of the light are from the Light-Giver; so it is that all move through Him and arise by His will.

How can utter nothingness gallop its steed in the field of preexistence, or a fleeting shadow reach to the everlasting sun? The Friend hath said, “But for Thee, we had not known Thee,” and the Beloved hath said, “nor attained Thy presence.”

O thou dear one! Impoverish thyself, that thou mayest enter the high court of riches; and humble thy body, that thou mayest drink from the river of glory, and attain to the full meaning of the poems whereof thou hadst asked.

What sort of powerlessness is this? To address that question, we must inquire into the nature of power, and why people seek it.

Power, in its most basic form, is that which allows us to assert our existence. Being shorn of all power – and I mean all power – is something we ought to be too frightened to contemplate for those accustomed to it. Imagine having no food and being unable to find any, with death the immediate result. Worse is the frustration of knowing that if only we had the means, we could prevail! I think people are even more afraid of powerlessness than they are of death, since to fail from lack of power is one the most deeply humiliating experiences of life.

As “humiliation” is close to humility in its verbal origins, which in turn reflects on our desire to become spiritually humble, perhaps this degradation resulting from insufficient power – or rather the deep awareness of our powerlessness – is not something to be feared, but an aspect of spiritual growth. In one of His prayers, Bahá’u’lláh writes:

Behold me, then, O my God, fallen prostrate upon the dust before Thee, confessing my powerlessness and Thine omnipotence, my poverty and Thy wealth, mine evanescence and Thine eternity, mine utter abasement and Thine infinite glory.96

Even deeper in this vein His states:

He, indeed, is endued with understanding who acknowledgeth his powerlessness and confesseth his sinfulness, for should any created thing lay claim to any existence, when confronted with the infinite wonders of Thy Revelation, so blasphemous a pretension would be more heinous than any other crime in all the domains of Thine invention and creation. Who is there, O my Lord, that, when Thou revealest the first glimmerings of the signs of Thy transcendent sovereignty and might, hath the power to claim for himself any existence whatever? Existence itself is as nothing when brought face to face with the mighty and manifold wonders of Thine incomparable Self.97

We are presented here with our sheer powerlessness to assert our own existence. How can we reconcile our horror at such a fact with its inherent truth? I feel the resolution of this dilemma lies in the Valley of Unity.

Unity in its essence implies an abolishment of “here” and “there”, “then” and “now”, “I” and “He”. To accomplish this, even the veils of love must be burnt and cast away. At the end of the Valley of Knowledge He quotes:

Love is a veil betwixt the lover and the loved one;  
More than this I am not permitted to tell.

Unity requires that we forgo insisting on any distinct, any separate awareness from God. So also this directly indicates a state of utter powerlessness, since all power thus resides in God. As long we bear any claim to power, or any wish to acquire it, we create the very separation that bars us from realizing this essential spiritual union.

I encourage all to meditate upon your own relation to power, whether manifested as a desire for control, or to achieve, or for the goodwill of others, or by any other means. Then, meditate on what life would feel like without this power, and without any future hope of it. If this results in a deep, despairing loneliness, a sense of shocking futility at the prospect of continuing, please delve into the nature of this emptiness, and why it might exist. If you have a different reaction, I would be interested to hear it, and what you understand from it.

In closing, consider the following prayers for meditation, which relate poignantly to the theme of powerlessness:

Inspire them, O my Lord, with a sense of their own powerlessness before Him Who is the Manifestation of Thy Self, and teach them to recognize the poverty of their own nature in the face of the manifold tokens of Thy self-sufficiency and riches, that they may gather together round Thy Cause, and cling to the hem of Thy mercy, and cleave to the cord of the good-pleasure of Thy will.98

Glorified, immeasurably glorified art Thou, my Best-Beloved! Inasmuch as Thou hast ordained that the utmost limit to which they who lift their hearts to Thee can rise is the confession of their powerlessness to enter the realms of Thy holy and transcendent unity, and that the highest station which they who aspire to know Thee can reach is the acknowledgment of their impotence to attain the retreats of Thy sublime knowledge I, therefore, beseech Thee, by this very powerlessness which is beloved of Thee, and which Thou hast decreed as the goal of them that have reached and attained Thy court, and by the splendors of Thy countenance that have encompassed all things, and by the energies of Thy Will whereby the entire creation hath been generated, not to deprive them that have set their hopes in Thee of the wonders of Thy mercy, nor to withhold from such as have sought Thee the treasures of Thy grace. Ignite, then, within their hearts the torch of Thy love, that its flame may consume all else except their wondrous remembrance of Thee, and that no trace may be left in those hearts except the gem-like evidences of Thy most holy sovereignty, so that from the land wherein they dwell no voice may be heard except the voice that extolleth Thy mercifulness and might, that on the earth on which they walk no light may shine except the light of Thy beauty, and that within every soul naught may be discovered except the revelation of Thy countenance and the tokens of Thy glory, that haply Thy servants may show forth only that which shall please Thee and shall conform wholly unto Thy most potent will.99

The elusive meaning of poverty

Bahá’u’lláh says in the seventh Valley:

Wherefore, if those who have come to the sea of His presence are found to possess none of the limited things of this perishable world, whether it be outer wealth or personal opinions, it mattereth not. For whatever the creatures have is limited by their own limits, and whatever the True One hath is sanctified therefrom; this utterance must be deeply pondered that its purport may be clear. “Verily the righteous shall drink of a winecup tempered at the camphor fountain.” If the interpretation of “camphor” become known, the true intention will be evident. This state is that poverty of which it is said, “Poverty is My glory.” And of inward and outward poverty there is many a stage and many a meaning which I have not thought pertinent to mention here; hence I have reserved these for another time, dependent on what God may desire and fate may seal.

As He states, poverty is a concept with many stages, and many shades of meaning. If we stop prematurely anywhere along our road, and give in to our conclusions, I believe we will miss out on yet deeper meanings that could inspire us.

In fact, I see one element of poverty as exactly this shunning of conclusions, this divesting ourselves of the belief that “we have found our answer”. Such possessions never serve us, since God forever remains in the realm of the Unknown with respect to our limited vision. And the Unknown is approached through poverty, not acquisition (i.e., emptying one’s cup to receive, not by filling it). Krishnamurti, a modern Indian philosopher, wrote:

Most of us are rich with the things of society. What society has created in us and what we have created in ourselves, are greed, envy, anger, hate, jealousy, anxiety – and with all these we are very rich. The various religions throughout the world have preached poverty. The monk assumes a robe, changes his name, shaves his head, enters a cell and takes a vow of poverty and chastity; in the East he has one loin cloth, one robe, one meal a day – and we all respect such poverty. But those men who have assumed the robe of poverty are still inwardly, psychologically, rich with the things of society because they are still seeking position and prestige; they belong to this order or that order, this religion or that religion; they still live in the divisions of a culture, a tradition. That is not poverty. Poverty is to be completely free of society, though one may have a few more clothes, a few more meals – good God, who cares? But unfortunately in most people there is this urge for exhibitionism.

Poverty becomes a marvellously beautiful thing when the mind is free of society. One must become poor inwardly, for then there is no seeking, no asking, no desire, no – nothing! It is only this inward poverty that can see the truth of a life in which there is no conflict at all. Such a life is a benediction not to be found in any church or any temple.

In the commentary to the “Book of Five Rings” (a Japanese text by a master swordsman in the 1500s), something similar was said most poetically:

To posit “beauty” or “book” or “unicorn” or “chiliagon”100 is to have your mind stop. To think of death when you are faced with your enemy is to have your mind stop. This is why the swordsman must remain detached from “worldly” thoughts… If you can rid yourself of the “stopping mind,” you will achieve Satori101, and experience the moment as if it were your own.

The mind that wants ownership is the “stopping mind”, whereas poverty implies a mind who is reintroduced to the entirety of life at every moment, reborn in every second. The present contains all realities – was it not created by God? – and even in the seed or the leaf there are written all the mysteries of the tree. Poverty is a preparedness to receive whatever inspirations God may wish to send, and to be carried by the flow of each moment into the novelty of the next. The opposite of poverty is wishing to stand against this flow, to own it: even if only conceptually!: to look around and see things from the standpoint of one who is other than they, and thus capable of ownership (and power).

Even in the comments that have been made saying “we already have everything”, I wonder about the existence of “we”. There is neither having nor not having, being nor non-being; the Japanese call this state of dependent reality “ku”. Unfortunately, such simple words are too trite to mean much, so we must continue in our delightful, verbal dance.

So even as I write these words, I erase them from my heart. Like the monks from Laos who create sand-paintings to their best ability, only to throw them into the river afterwards, our wish is to be filled in the moment with a deep love of God’s reality, to let all these understandings course through us in an ever-intensifying expression of praise and gratitude.

It is like the lover bestowing a gift on his beloved: she sees nothing of the gift, only the fact of the giving; and thus they carry each other away in their ship of arms to a sea that refuses any name…

O my friend, look upon thyself: Hadst thou not become a father nor begotten a son, neither wouldst thou have heard these sayings. Now forget them all, that thou mayest learn from the Master of Love in the schoolhouse of oneness, and return unto God, and forsake the inner land of unreality for thy true station, and dwell within the shadow of the tree of knowledge.102

The rocks crumbling underfoot went unnoticed next to the burning sun above. The air was dry, and quickly blew all moisture from Majnún’s skin, leaving a brief tingle as the evaporation cooled his arms. There was hardly a cloud to see, and on the ground was only cactus and rough bushes. Likely snakes and scorpions hid all around, but even they avoided the heat of the day. Hiking the desert at midday takes a special kind of madness – or a very special reason.

The next hill remained forever distant from Majnún’s laboring feet. Dust, the color of calfskin, stretched in all directions, with only a few sprays of green in the form of spiny plants. Even breathing took the moisture from one’s lungs, so Majnún drank constantly. His bottle of water grew lighter with every step.

Somewhere in all this chaparral lived a fair maiden – a princess of great reknown. He trekked to find her, and to present his gift of love, that she might favor him with a glance. It was said her gaze could heal wounds, and the shape of her face granted wishes. Certainly the stories he had heard in California promised nothing less. Could it be true? Had he found one who would touch his heart and leave in its place a thing of beauty and light? One foot following the other, he continued on his way to find out.

Even her name was a mystery. A ravishing women from the East, named after a famous nom de plume of a century ago. They say that, in public circles where many came to admire and capture her beauty, she used other names and told other tales. This only heightened the mystery of that precious being, who even now pulled at Majnún’s heart like a magnet deep in the Earth. Although the sun fell dim and blood red in the west, and his bottle carried less than a trickle, he knew the time was drawing near when he would find refreshment simply by her words, “I am here.”

The creatures of the desert regarded the wanderer in silent amusement. No fools for love, they. There is a wisdom in saving the heart, and keeping one’s focus on matters of food and shelter. But the lover who catches a glimpse of his hope – his beloved – cares nothing for the laws that govern ordinary lives. He goes from shelter to rain, from surfeit to famine, just to hear her name one last time. He is a creature foreign to the world of being. How well the Master relates:

Love accepteth no existence and wisheth no life: He seeth life in death, and in shame seeketh glory…. Blessed the neck that is caught in His noose, happy the head that falleth on the dust in the pathway of His love.

And dust there was, everywhere; and Majnún with a longing to throw his head – his life blood! – down upon it! to drain away his life in remembrance of her; to prove, by becoming a stain upon the ground, his undying devotion. To a lover, these are the marks of true living and the heights of glory.

But first, to find her – to tread this barren valley of Search on a mare both intemperate and slow. For Majnún recognized that his own being was the steed he rode, and so he willed each leg to chase the other down dusty trails and up crumbling hills. Each step was an insult to his thirst; every moment, a sliver of time pressing into his heart. But since the Master counsels patience, he whispered to each leg, to each cell, to hold back from their madness, until he could watch her smile and feel the dawn of reunion breaking over the dark night of absence.

The awesome cactii, with dusty arms reaching for heaven, said nothing. The rabbits here and there gave no comment. The first stars peeked in the darkness, and twinkled, but remained shy. The brushing of scaly bodies, and sinuous tracks through the dirt, was all that was heard from the snakes. Only the coyote and his plaintive howl seemed to agree that life without a sun is not enough. But while his sun had passed beyond the hills, Majnún’s had yet to rise in the East of recognition. Where was she?

Searching high and low, under rocks and behind trees, he looked for her. Everyone he passed, he questioned; every broken leaf he pondered for signs of her passing. As the Master told:

In every face, he seeketh the beauty of the Friend; in every country he looketh for the Beloved. He joineth every company, and seeketh fellowship with every soul, that haply in some mind he may uncover the secret of the Friend, or in some face he may behold the beauty of the Loved One.

But he met so few on the trail, and of her there were only hints and stories. He pursued them all, looking for whatever clue might lead to her palace. In the end, he even fell down on the dust, and begin sifting its grains, in case she had made the ground her home.

One must judge of search by the standard of the Majnun of Love. It is related that one day they came upon Majnun sifting the dust, and his tears flowing down. They said, “What doest thou?” He said, “I seek for Layli.” They cried, “Alas for thee! Layli is of pure spirit, and thou seekest her in the dust!” He said, “I seek her everywhere; haply somewhere I shall find her.”

Where could she be? The hapless wanderer was out of food, out of water. He lived now on the energy of his own tissues. He consumed himself like a candle to give forth a weak flame in the night – his only guide. And like the candle, he wept hot tears streaking his face, and guttered whenever biting winds rose from the north. Almost without hope he struggled on, and lived for the one thought that perhaps she was near. His state recalled the Master’s tale:

From the rule of love, his heart was empty of patience, and his body weary of his spirit; he reckoned life without her as a mockery, and time consumed him away. How many a day he found no rest in longing for her; how many a night the pain of her kept him from sleep; his body was worn to a sigh, his heart’s wound had turned him to a cry of sorrow.

When shall it end? Feet numbed from travel, a heart weighing like stone, Majnún pushed ahead. Everything he’d brought fell to his side as he gave up the final impediments. A trail of worthless belongings littered the trail, marking his passage by tokens that offered no solace. Soon even memories were swept away, knowledge – the fragments of his very being. Existence itself he sloughed off, to be replaced by the sole image of his beloved.

Nor shall the seeker reach his goal unless he sacrifice all things. That is, whatever he hath seen, and heard, and understood, all must he set at naught, that he may enter the realm of the spirit, which is the City of God.

How does one follow the track of a ghost? The weary one became invisible to his own eyes, and so perhaps the story must end here. But he’d yet to find the aim of his longing, and the strength of his yearning still sparked the air and thrilled the atoms by its vibration. Everywhere he went he brought life, which he gave freely because he himself sought death. Or rather, he thirsted for the death of absence, to taste the draught of reunion. “He had given a thousand lives for one taste of the cup of her presence…”

A thing of pure spirit, he drifted over the desert sands. The animals were still quiet; the bunnies flopped their ears, and paused to muse the secrets of a blade of grass. What the snakes knew they kept to the trails, and wrote only these lines in their gliding calligraphy:

Love's a stranger to earth and heaven too;  
In him are lunacies seventy-and-two.

Some day, fate promises, the aching bellies will reach to the table of bounty, and the parched tongues taste from the meads of delight; the aching travelers will soak in the ocean of nearness, and besotted poets drown their misery in the wine of union. But when shall these things be?

In answer to this, one must recall His words to mind, where He speaks of the life of the soul, and the sweet death of the seeker who vanishes, to enter the heaven of his Goal:

[Love] yieldeth no remedy but death, he walketh not save in the valley of the shadow; yet sweeter than honey is his venom on the lover’s lips, and fairer his destruction in the seeker’s eyes than a hundred thousand lives….

For the head raised up in the love of God will certainly fall by the sword, and the life that is kindled with longing will surely be sacrificed, and the heart which remembereth the Loved One will surely brim with blood. How well is it said:

  Live free of love, for its very peace is anguish;  
  Its beginning is pain, its end is death.

Peace be upon him who followeth the Right Path!

The road was clear of traffic, open, leading to the inner heart of the south bay. All around were eucalyptus, palm trees, the hazy sky of midsummer and the wondrous blue of the western sky.

And through it all, cutting like a stare of hatred across a room, was the shimmering asphalt on which my car rode. That, and the cement walls, new with vines as part of the city’s beautification project. “The beautification of cities”. Never has an oxymoron so conjured my bile.

I swept past the beautiful palms too fast to notice them. Also escaping my notice was the pleasant breeze felt by the leaves of the eucalyptus as they closed their eyes and swayed naked in the wind. Nor did I see the timid rabbit, watching me from the palm’s base. The peace, the quiet – the whole essence of this field of nature – was divided irrevocably in two by the black proof of man’s scientific genius.

Not only was nature divided from nature, but man from nature as well. As if a straight line (forgive the metaphor) had bounded man’s soul, and forced him into the role of a spectator over what he had once known.

So clear, black, and definite, this “Straight Path” mean for oil-burning machines. But is the soul’s straight path so antithetical to the terrain surrounding it?

Now as I look to my left, I see those creeper vines along the cement wall again – but now they appear as animals, green geckos, scurrying over the side to return to their native home. Man’s industry has created a world within a world, and our attempts to import what we destroyed in creating it, only produces a mass exodus of those elements to their original habitat. Even the H-bombs appear as an infinitely subtle attempt on the part of those materials used for their construction, to return to the dust from whence they came.

Green lizards, leaping from the river of black  
that nips at their toes,  
scampering with tremendous effort  
to reach the edge of that shore and beyond...

But where am I...  
Who am I...  
these are only creeper vines  
planted for the gracing of a highway!

Perhaps my vision has unveiled to me  
a secret yearning in the heart of things:  
to return to their primeval nature.

I have come to believe that faith has the power to create new realities. This theme recurred to me after watching the film “Artificial Intelligence”, in which a robot boy’s wish to become real – so his found-mother would love him – begins a chain of events that lead him ultimately to his goal. That “responsiveness” on the part of life to our wishes is something I’ve reflected on for some time now, having seen its effect again and again. Nor do I think faith alone has this power, but that the yearnings of the soul are somehow heard – and answered. From the Bahá’í Writings:

Spirit has influence; prayer has spiritual effect. Therefore, we pray, “O God! Heal this sick one!” Perchance God will answer. Does it matter who prays? God will answer the prayer of every servant if that prayer is urgent. His mercy is vast, illimitable. He answers the prayers of all His servants. He answers the prayer of this plant. The plant prays potentially, “O God! Send me rain!” God answers the prayer, and the plant grows. God will answer anyone. He answers prayers potentially. Before we were born into this world did we not pray, “O God! Give me a mother; give me two fountains of bright milk; purify the air for my breathing; grant me rest and comfort; prepare food for my sustenance and living”? Did we not pray potentially for these needed blessings before we were created? When we came into this world, did we not find our prayers answered? Did we not find mother, father, food, light, home and every other necessity and blessing, although we did not actually ask for them? Therefore, it is natural that God will give to us when we ask Him. His mercy is all-encircling.104

Prayer being the expression of faith, the certitude of an answer, the certainty of being heard: and yet, even if not in prayer, and only the heart’s longing – if sincere – I wonder that life doesn’t relish such spirit, and in return do whatever it can to make our hopes real…

Life these past months, though fraught with change and pain and some anxiety, has been like a dream constantly unfolding. Am I the dreamer, watching events come open like petals of flowers – or am I the dream, and the life I see around me, the truest definition of myself?

The spiritual world “bestows only the joy”; suffering comes from this world, and part of freeing one’s self from it means escaping suffering. However, this happens not by avoiding the particulars of a situation, but by transmuting our experience of it.

Clarifying the relationship between joy and suffering is something I’ve been trying to do a lot in my writing, but it proves an elusive task. Maybe an analogy will help: Whenever I play a sport that I love, it wracks my body – but is not perceived as suffering; I want to go out and do it again. But if I don’t love the sport, it wearies both my body and heart; and as Bahá’u’lláh wrote:

Lay not upon your souls that which will weary them and weigh them down, but rather what will lighten and uplift them, so that they may soar on the wings of the Divine verses towards the Dawning-place of His manifest signs; this will draw you nearer to God, did ye but comprehend.111

The experience of joy and suffering are like barometers, indicating the nature of our relationship to life (and thus to the Beloved). If something causes us suffering, it means we cannot see the Beloved in that direction; whereas joy opens our eyes to the true Reality.

This is confused by the fact that one must know how to distinguish joy from pastimes. It is the soul that feels joy, not the body. To discern our real response to a situation requires profound honesty. Violating chastity, for example, may feel terrific, but a true heart will see how it sickens the soul.

Next is the fact that some suffering is ordained. This is suffering we cannot avoid, either because life inflicts it upon us, or His law does. In that case, what happens is a challenge to find our way through a false understanding of life. Without such challenges, we would naturally avoid these tests and fail to grow. For the sake of the soul’s lasting joy, our ignorance is brought forcibly to our attention.

The Fast is one of these, where the fact of suffering is like a poke in the ribs, saying, “Why do you still experience me as suffering?” If we understood the real nature of the Fast, we would keep it without ceasing (see quote in previous post112). Or as He puts it in another place:

Whatsoever He, the Well-Beloved, ordaineth, the same is, verily, beloved. To this He Who is the Lord of all creation beareth Me witness. Whoso hath inhaled the sweet fragrance of the All-Merciful, and recognized the Source of this utterance, will welcome with his own eyes the shafts of the enemy, that he may establish the truth of the laws of God amongst men.113

In a genuine religious context, physical suffering may worsen, but the lover transmutes it in his heart into something better than ease and comfort – since his suffering connects him to his Beloved. `Abdu’l-Bahá says of such a soul: “It will not see in this station anything that is inconsistent with its contentment and it does not prefer the greatest ease to the most mighty calamity.”

Suffering is life acting in the role of a teacher. That we still see it should spur us on to pray and meditate, reflect on what we see, question our motives, our knowledge, our ideas, our beliefs. Suffering is a voice on the wind saying, “See past me, for I am the veil.”

Tear asunder, O my God, the veil of vain imaginings that hath obscured the vision of Thy people, that all may haste towards Thee, may tread the path of Thy pleasure, and walk in the ways of Thy Faith. We are, O my God, Thy servants and Thy bondsmen. Thou art sufficient unto us so that we can dispense with the world and all that is therein. We are wholly satisfied with all that hath befallen us in Thy path, and exclaim: “Praised be Thou, in Whose hand are the realms of revelation and of creation, and all the kingdoms of earth and heaven!”114

As vision clears and the soul’s perception becomes plain, following one’s joy can become a safe route along the Way – because the soul’s happiness can come only from nearness to God. When finally we “suffer for the Beloved’s sake” but feel it as bliss, we have passed one of life’s great tests. Then suffering ends, and whatever the body undergoes is wholly different from the life of the soul.

Although to outward view, the wayfarers in this Valley may dwell upon the dust, yet inwardly they are throned in the heights of mystic meaning; they eat of the endless bounties of inner significances, and drink of the delicate wines of the spirit.115

Develop a strong relationship with suffering! make it a friend; love it no matter how hard it seems – and in return, secrets will be whispered in your ears…

We are the guests of one who devours his guests The friends of the one who slaughters his friends… Although by his gaze he brings death to so many lovers Let yourself be killed by him: is he not the water of life?

Never, ever, grow bitter: he is the friend and kills gently. Keep your heart noble, for this most noble love Kills only kings near God and men free from passion.

We are the night, earth’s shadow. He is the Sun: He splits open the night with a sword soaked in dawn…116

Although it is true that every religion upholds the “twin pillars of reward and punishment”, yet this is not the purpose of religion. To consider it so would reduce religion to a mere code of ethics, in which the whole aim revolves around our development.

Schools use reward and punishment to create an atmosphere of learning. And while the progress of each child is the reason for the school’s existence as an institution, the aim of schooling is the pursuit of knowledge – not solely earning the marks of progress. Many pursue that knowledge for its pragmatic value, while a choice few will fall in love with Knowledge herself, and find themselves natural-born philosophers, distracted in their love of the Abstract.

Likewise, religion is about awakening the soul to its Creator, that it might know and worship Him. Insofar as moral rectitude conduces to this (especially in a group setting), religion preaches ethics.

… it is the relationship of the individual soul to God and the fulfilment of its spiritual destiny that is the ultimate aim of the laws of religion.120

In this sense, the acquisition of perfections is functional, not essential. That is, the aim of life is not the acquiring of perfections, but the consciousness of God that such an acquisition facilitates. Should we really spend our time worrying about our own development? It would be like a lover practicing how to love so ardently, that he forgets his Beloved standing right next to him.

As the Sufi mystic `Attár describes:

God from on High said to David: `Say to my servants: “O handful of earth! If I had not heaven for recompense and hell for punishment, would you ever think of me? If there were neither light nor fire, would you ever think of me? But since I merit supreme respect you must adore me without hope or fear; and yet, if you were never upheld by hope or fear would you ever think of me? Since I am your Lord, you should worship me from the depths of your heart. Reject all that which is not I, burn it to ashes and cast the ashes to the wind of excellence.”’

And the Báb wrote:

Fire and paradise both bow down and prostrate themselves before God. That which is worthy of His Essence is to worship Him for His sake, without fear of fire, or hope of paradise.

Although when true worship is offered, the worshipper is delivered from the fire, and entereth the paradise of God’s good-pleasure, yet such should not be the motive of his act. However, God’s favour and grace ever flow in accordance with the exigencies of His inscrutable wisdom.121

We should not be anxious over the question of how to judge our progress. The real aim is to find God, a search we are aided in if we undertake it sincerely. We will find the confirmations we need, and be given knowledge to continue on the Way. In this, prayer and meditation are essential, and the most valuable tool:

For the core of religious faith is that mystic feeling which unites Man with God. This state of spiritual communion can be brought about and maintained by means of meditation and prayer. And this is the reason why Bahá’u’lláh has so much stressed the importance of worship. It is not sufficient for a believer merely to accept and observe the teachings. He should, in addition, cultivate the sense of spirituality which he can acquire chiefly by means of prayer.

Lastly, concern over our future state is one of the forms of attachment that actually hinders our search! The Bahá’í Writings call it “attachment to the next world”. Whereas to forgo everything in our search for God is what is called for.

For when the true lover and devoted friend reacheth to the presence of the Beloved, the sparkling beauty of the Loved One and the fire of the lover’s heart will kindle a blaze and burn away all veils and wrappings. Yea, all he hath, from heart to skin, will be set aflame, so that nothing will remain save the Friend.122

The being of the world, and the non-being of consciousness

Existentialism, as given in “Being and Nothingness” by Jean-Paul Sartre, defines being as that which is – also called the in-itself – and awareness as the consciousness of such being, termed the for-itself.

In order for consciousness to be aware of being, it must not have being in the same sense as the in-itself. If it had, then being freely and independently aware of the in-itself would require a separation between the being of awareness and the being of the world. What would be the being of this separation, and what would separate its being from the being of consciousness and the world?

Rather, in order to be perfectly free and aware of being requires that our essential reality not share the same essence as the being of the world. It must not have being of the same kind to any degree, since otherwise it would be part of it, and carried with it, and no longer freely aware.

This implies that consciousness can never possess qualities or objects, nor hold power, since these are attributes of the in-itself. Whatever power our “self” of awareness seems to possess is in fact the world’s complicity with our free choice, our will. If the world were never to comply, we could have no power over it. Power is not inherent in our awareness, but is an attribute of being that via complicity becomes *related *to our consciousness.

The same applies to possession. In the case of objects, possession results from a complicity on the part of the world not to cease regarding objects as belonging to us. In the case of attributes, these are maintained by the awareness of others, in comparison with what they observe throughout the rest of the world. If all others were to cease attributing qualities, qualities – as different from other qualities – would cease to appear to be. To this end, awareness can only say that it is or is not aware of certain aspects of being, but no such statements can made about awareness itself.

Our will, then, which is nothing other than the evidence of our conscious freedom, chooses among the field of its awareness, and in so choosing garners the complicity of others, granting out will the effective qualities of power and possession. But these are functional, role-based qualifications; they are not existential. In the existential sense, being is (whatever its mode), while consciousness is only the awareness of such being.

The contingent existence of both being and consciousness

Awareness does not self-subsist; it is perpetually an awareness “of” something. It cannot be said to exist at all, except as the awareness of being, evidenced by the fact that it cannot become aware of itself per se. For example, an awareness of my city leads to an awareness of my awareness of the city; which then leads to an awareness of an awareness of, etc. Notice that every element in the sentence is completed by “of”. The moment awareness becomes aware of its being aware, it ceases to be aware of its awareness, but is now aware of its awareness of being aware of being aware. Ad infinitum, awareness escapes every attempt to reveal its essence, since in fact it exists only contingently, in its relationship to being aware of being.

How is it that something non-existent can be aware? This is a mystery of the soul.

Thou hast asked Me concerning the nature of the soul. Know, verily, that the soul is a sign of God, a heavenly gem whose reality the most learned of men hath failed to grasp, and whose mystery no mind, however acute, can ever hope to unravel.129

Yet, if it is true that we do not exist – that we have no being – how can we live eternally? One possibility is: Because our role in creation is maintained by the Will of God. Hence the statement, “It [the soul] will endure as long as the Kingdom of God, His sovereignty, His dominion and power will endure.”

Consider a dark room, a man sitting on a chair, spinning a black wire with a bright light at its end. If he spins quickly enough and constantly enough, a bright circle will appear. If he spins very fast indeed, this circle will become bright and solid, and have all the apparent attributes of a circle. Students and mathematicians could come and study this circle, and learn from its circularity. Architects could use it to judge the arcs of their protractors. In short, this circle qua circle, in the eyes of the world, would be fully valid and complete. And yet, it does not exist.

If the man should stop spinning the circle, it would instantly cease to be. The “being” here is in the wire and the light. But in the world of man’s awareness, the spinning wire takes on the contingent being of a circle. And if the man had infinite strength, time and wakefulness, he could maintain the contingent being of this non-existent-yet-purposeful circle indefinitely.

Now consider the structure of the atom. It is mostly space; a nucleus of protons and neutrons that, through electrodynamics, keeps a set of electrons whirling in space. Within the sphere of the atom, nearly all its volume is empty space. But owing to the forces involved, and the speed at which the electrons orbit the nucleus, resistance to other atoms appears. And when trillions of these atoms are combined together, the effects of that same electrodynamic activity serve to create the appearance of a solid object.

If the spinning of atoms were to stop, most of the solidity in the universe would vanish (with the exception of super-dense objects). The region of space occupied by the Earth and its moon would suddenly become practically empty space. That is how little mass is present in an atom. If you imagine a tennis ball in the center of an empty cathedral, and a cherry pit rolling on the roof, it would approximate the relationship between an electron and its parent nucleus.

In this sense, everything we know – even the in-itself – is like the spinning circle. This is contingent existence. If God’s will were ever to cease, such existence would cease, and our awareness of it would cease. Like the man spinning the wire, God maintains the form of the universe and our experience of it through a constant manifestation of His decree.

Nature is God’s Will and is its expression in and through the contingent world. It is a dispensation of Providence ordained by the Ordainer, the All-Wise. Were anyone to affirm that it is the Will of God as manifested in the world of being, no one should question this assertion. It is endowed with a power whose reality men of learning fail to grasp. Indeed a man of insight can perceive naught therein save the effulgent splendour of Our Name, the Creator.130

Our attraction to and fulfillment through being

Because our awareness is an awareness of, we experience an ongoing love affair with being in all its forms. To be aware of something heightens our sense of fulfillment, for awareness is our essence. We can also be aware of nothingness, of what is not, such as being aware of the disappearance of the circle once the spinning has stopped. We are aware of what was, what no longer is, and of many things that might have been but which are not. Yet even these objects of negation are founded upon being, says Sartre, since without being to act as the foundation for nothingness, how could nothingness become an object of our awareness? So we say that awareness is always an awareness of being, or of that which is founded directly or indirectly upon being.

We exist insofar as we are aware, and since we are forever aware of something, then it is what we are aware of that fulfills our existence. The truer such being, the truer our awareness. Sartre says, “We are haunted by being”. Awareness of being, since it is our existence, means that we dote on being; we long for it. But we are not it, we cannot possess it or have power over it. In a fundamental sense, we are ever separate from it. We relate to it through being aware of it, but we cannot become like it.

Resignation and acceptance of this state is by no means comfortable. Our instinct is to acquire the attributes of what we love, so that we can become what we love, and thus be satisfied and bring an end to our questing for all time. We cannot have attributes, yet we struggle furiously to acquire them – not functionally, in which sense they do have a purpose; we seek to acquire them existentially, as possessions of our supposed selfhood, so that we might prove to ourselves that we have acquired being. Inwardly we are aware of this impossibility, of our futility and despair; but we deny and suppress this fundamental dichotomy between the being we long for and our wish to resolve the situation by becoming this being. We “are not”, but since we long for being, we seek “to be”. But we cannot be. So we adopt the pose of being, we imitate what we love most about it, and then deny that we have not in essence become this being. We know that we have not become it – we have not even touched it, we are merely aware of it – and yet we will ourselves not to know this fact, since the illusion is less painful than our anguish at being a nothingness that cannot become aware of itself.

Acceptance of our role as awareness of Being

How can we resolve this? We struggle for being, yet forever it escapes us. We think we have gained it, but then we find we were duping ourselves into that belief. At every moment we are aware, we have an instinct toward being, but we can never touch it, never connect with it, never share its essence.

“God was alone; there was none else besides Him.” So lofty is this station that no testimony can bear it witness, neither evidence do justice to its truth.131

The resolution lies in detachment and resignation: in accepting that happiness is found only in our awareness of God, not in emulating God. He is the Master, we are servants. He commands, we obey. He speaks, we listen. We cannot long to possess, or hold sway, over the being around us. This attempt is what perpetuates our constant cycle of hope and denial. Once we consume this hope, and let ourselves fall into the perfect abyss of non-being, we will find ourselves rescued by His promise “in Our ways will We guide them”.

This is the plane whereon the vestiges of all things are destroyed in the traveler, and on the horizon of eternity the Divine Face riseth out of the darkness, and the meaning of “All on the earth shall pass away, but the face of thy Lord….” is made manifest.132

Accepting this station begins with acknowledging our utter poverty; that the essential nature of our relationship with God is to exist in awareness of Him. “I testify, O my God, that thou hast created me to know Thee and to worship Thee.”

That is, all that he hath seen and heard and understood, all must he consume in the denial “no”, until he achieves the City of Life, which is the Median of “but”.133

“There is no god” – implying any idol that captures our fancy except the True One – “but God”. We fulfill our role in creation through our awareness (“to know and worship”) of our Creator. Then we hear Muhammad’s statement “My poverty is My glory” ringing true, in that we find ourselves immersed in the sea of the perfection of His creation, no longer hindered by our absorption in the idols of our distraction and craving for what is not ours to be. Then there is nothing of which we are aware that is not an awareness of Him. Don’t we seek to possess being in order to ensure a constant awareness of what fulfills us? Discovering that God is manifest in all things: This is our paradise.

I therefore reveal unto thee sacred and resplendent tokens from the planes of glory, to attract thee into the court of holiness and nearness and beauty, and draw thee to a station wherein thou shalt see nothing in creation save the Face of thy Beloved One, the Honored, and behold all created things only as in the day wherein none hath a mention.134

Someone on soc.religion.bahai wrote: “It doesn’t make sense to me that he had an ‘urge’ like a biological clock, that would require need on ‘his’ part… and isn’t God beyond that? Which may leave us to be an idle past time… something along the lines of a childs toy truck – hmm… can’t really buy that either… bordom seems to be beyond God too… any thoughts, ideas, writings?”

I don’t have any writings to share, but just a thought:

If God is perfection  
  and God exists  
  then perfection would be discernible -- (weak point)  
  thus it would have attributes  
  these attributes would manifest themselves  
  hence we come into picture.

There is a sense in which we are not individual beings, but merely reflections within the material world of spiritual perfections. How else would glory and honor become manifested in the world if not for human souls?

In this respect we were not “created”, as if there were nothing one day and then we appeared. I mean, in one sense. For example, humanity as a species probably did start at some definite point in the past, but that is not to say that the concept of “human” has not always existed in some form.

For example, there are many roses in the world, and each rose began growing at a definite point in time, but “roseness” is far more ancient and is being continually manifested through the centuries as each seed produces the potential for more roses.

Perhaps we are narrowing our focus too much: to human life on this go around; perhaps the role humans play has always been a part of existence. If God is love, we are the lovers. The existence of love presupposes the existence of a lover (otherwise the virtue would be naught), and hence the two co-exist. If He is light, we are the rays; if light had no rays, what would it be then?

Yet this relationship exists only on one level. Since God is All, there is another level in which the lover and beloved are not separate. But I suspect your question concerns this world, and why we perceive a difference between ourselves and God.

Of the “greater unity” Bahá’u’lláh wrote:

In this Valley, the wayfarer leaveth behind him the stages of the “oneness of Being and Manifestation” and reacheth a oneness that is sanctified above these two stations. Ecstasy alone can encompass this theme, not utterance nor argument; and whosoever hath dwelt at this stage of the journey, or caught a breath from this garden land, knoweth whereof We speak.

Here I would guess that “Being” is virtue, and “Manifestation” is that which causes virtue to become realized – such as love and the lover. Since these two are co-existent there is a certain oneness between them, like the two sides of one coin. And yet there exists another realm, in which perception leaves off and God is related to by other means.

Take light for example, in the physical world. We are able to perceive the sun’s rays because they take time to arrive, and there is space in which they travel. But we know that for objects traveling near the velocity of light, the value of space and time becomes less: that is, the faster we go, the less real time and space become. The limit of such a progression would result in the non-existence of space and time, and hence the elimination of perception because there would be no time and space in which to perceive things.

It is for this reason that objects can never meet or exceed the velocity of light, because doing so would put them beyond the pale of physical laws. The math equations seem to suggest to such an object would simply cease to be – defying the law of conservation of mass and energy. Hence it is “impossible” according to what we know about physical principles so far.

Perhaps there is a spiritual correlation here: that we are even as material beings trapped within the limitations of physical laws – in this case related to our perception – but that if we apply to God, and grow in the mysteries of faith, we can actually transcend by the grace of God what would seem to be a permanent limitation of our being.

Maybe it is our task to learn how to overcome these limits, and to see via “faith” with the eyes of Truth, rather than using our ordinary eyes. Maybe all of these perceptual distinctions exist in order to see whether we will make an effort to free ourselves from them.

The sun that arose yesterday and the sun that rises tomorrow are considered the same because the idea referred to by “sun” has not changed. The atoms of its surface may have changed entirely, the configuration of its energy, the pattern of its magnetic fields; but in terms of the attributes we mean by “sun”, nothing has changed.

The word, then, does not refer to a present reality, but to an idea whose purpose is to abstract the basic principle of the individual suns presented over time. If “sun” meant any one sun, it would cease to be true even before it was spoken. This same holds for individuals, all of whose atoms will have changed to a different configuration by the time one conceives the thought.

Time permits minute transformations so constant that the physical bodies we give names to have little to do with reality. The distance of electrons from the parent nucleus is such that, if time were entirely stopped, all we could see in place of Earth would be dark space. But since electrons whirl at tremendous speeds, and because changing energy states allow photons to be absorbed and retransmitted, time permits a visual perception of “things” whose reality is otherwise imperceptible.137

These “things”, then, like the “sun”, do not refer to real compositions of elements, but to more abstract conceptions inferred from the consistencies among the transformations of those elements. These successive temporal impressions impinge on the memory, and owing to a lack of fundamental differentiation from earlier counterparts, an imago is formed in the mind to which we can apply a word like “sun”.

This demonstrates that the “sun” is not the sun. Nor can the real sun ever be known in the same way as ideas, since it changes before consciousness has an opportunity to conceive of its prior state. This leaves us with two modes of apprehending reality: Cognitively, by the process of ideation that abstract ideas and principles from constantly changing particulars; and directly, by the mere fact that our own existence is part of the reality of which we are aware.

If direct experience could not take place, it would mean one can only live in the ideational landscape presented by the mind – in the summarized projection of actual reality. However, since this process of summary is indeed taking place – as evidenced by the imagos resulting from it – then at some level we must be aware of the contents to which these summaries refer. That is, for an awareness of “sun” to exist, there must at some level be an awareness of the actual sun, even if pre-consciously we transcend those infinitesimal experiences to arrive at the truncated abstraction, “sun”.

Some religious philosophies propose that we turn fully to the direct experience of reality by forgoing cognitive apperception. By emptying the mind, by meditation, the avoidance of words, resisting processes of identification, we can experience what is real by refusing to reduce it in terms of human understanding.

This approach, while it appreciates the value of the realities founding our experience of life, neglects the nobility of the mind in its ability to perceive underlying principles. If direct experience is being aware of the infinite variety of life, then apperception is the discovery of the fundamental unities underlying this variety.

Were human happiness found only in a direct perception of reality, there would be little reason to argue in favor of apperception. But can one be happy who denies their nature? If use of the mind is a natural inclination – and pursuing knowledge causes enough joy to suggest this is so – then ideation must take its place among the higher pursuits.

What does ideation offer? There are some who scorn science because it removes people from life, while others – the physicists – find so much joy in the idea of ultimate theories of life that they dedicate their lives to it. They obviously enjoy something that fully engages their attention. Perhaps both kinds of awareness offer something to the soul.

Returning to the analogy of the sun, we cognize the abstract term “sun” by transcending138 the sequence of individual suns that present themselves over a course of time. One could say we glean a principle from the variegation of phenomena; that reality offers us a set of impressions, which are consistent in some regard, and our intellect is capable of identifying the nature of this consistency. In the case of the sun, it is light, warmth, location, etc., in contrast to its ever-varying quantity of atoms.

Yet the longer we spend in our study of the sun, the more we discover that even in the flux of atomic configurations there are general principles to be discovered. This perception of principle from phenomena seems capable of as much profundity as the degree of our attention, with the result that physicists continue to grow hopeful of finding a single set of laws that will describe the exceedingly complex interactions of the universe.

The motive underlying this search for a general description of reality is perhaps more than mere intellectual curiosity. Whenever principles are discovered there is a feeling of release from the vagaries of time, coupled with a deep appreciation of how ably time plays out the consequences of such principles. We detach ourselves from the inexplicable character of phenomena – with the danger of separating ourselves from life; while those who pursue direct experience unify themselves with phenomena at the risk of becoming incurious.

Direct experience appears to exercise the extroverted nature in man: our ability to sympathize and sacrifice the coherence of our identity in order to know more intimately what is external to the self; while apperception exercises our introverted nature by abstracting from the many toward an inner experience of the one. The fewer the laws, principles, and ideas, which are needed to describe life, the more harmonious and unified our relationship to it. For whereas objects are constantly different, they are also always the same. These two modes of reality are coexistent, so it makes sense that human beings pursue two modes of comprehending that reality.

The ideal of direct experience is that nothing is ever the same: each moment is always new, unexplored, mysterious. The ideal of apperception is that everything is familiar and well-known; that even between people who have never met, there is a deeper bond uniting them as though instances of a single entity. Consider a universe full of mirrors, with a single light shining into all of them. On the one hand, since the angles of the mirror are different – and the effect is compounded by reflected reflections – one sees a rich universe filled with variety and complexity; on the other hand, since there is only light, all that is ever seen is that light – and to know the light well enough is to know the potential for its variation in the mirrors.

If we call these two experiences of life immanence and transcendence, then the fullest development of man would consist in an appreciation of both: the unity of life and the diversity of life. So the magnifying feeling that comes through the discovery of general principles is as potent as the feeling of knowing that every morn and evening is different from those that came before.

Without denying or demeaning the richness of every drop filling the sea, yet it is also true that each drop conveys all the ocean’s secrets, and that even in an atom one may discern the signature of the laws governing the whole expanse of the universe. All things proceed revolve around a single principle, while no matter how much we may experience, one is astonished at the infinite forms this purpose has called into being.

I don’t think anything connected to joy, that is not denied by the laws of Bahá’u’lláh, is “wrong”. } There are many people who will answer the above question by saying “serve the Cause, pray”. But this does not result in joy for everyone. Deriving pure joy from serving of others is a spiritual station that takes time and insight to achieve. It is not automatic.

In the meantime, learning how to be joyful is an important element of one’s life, since people who are joyful typically provide better service than those who aren’t!

So if the essence of life for human beings is love and service, and if joy is an important element to serving others, and not everyone derives joy just from serving, what is the answer?

It’s simple: Life is meant to be organic, to grow in stages. Don’t expect perfection at every turn. It’s certainly VERY OK to look for fun and joy in places other than prayer and service, so long as the Divine Laws are observed (and these are really quite few in number).

I once was involved in a service project with a Bahá’í friend who had an excellent attitude: We serve, then we play. Every Saturday we would go to another town, teach and serve people there for several hours, and then spend the rest of the day doing things that were purely for enjoyment – going out to movies, dinner, taking a trip to the ocean, etc.

The result? We looked forward to serving every weekend, because we knew the whole day would be rewarding – both to ourselves and to others. I would always look forward to SOME part of the day. After awhile, this fun spirit began to permeate the whole day, until even the time spent in service had a joyfulness to it.

Anyway, my advice is to avoid Puritanist ethics like the plague. It is good to spend money on yourself140 and to enjoy one’s existence. While doing so, begin to factor some kind of regular service into your life. You will find that as your reserves of joy increase, your capacity and your desire to serve will also increase. Once this cycle reaches the point that the service itself is fun, you will begin fulfilling those quotations that have already been mentioned.

The point is that life is a process of growth, not a leap into imitating a perfected existence. And happiness and joy water that growth far, far more effectively than guilt and self-recrimination.

Someone asked: Suppose someone investigates a matter, sincerely and honestly, to the best of her ability and with what resources are available to her. After considering things, she forms a conclusion as best she can. What happens if her honest investigation leads her to a conclusion which is not in accord with what most Bahá’ís believe, or which even seems to conflict with some statement of one of the central figures of the Bahá’í Faith? Should she investigate the truth as best she can, even if she reaches non-Bahá’í conclusions, or should she renounce her investigation of the truth and take things “on faith”?

The paradox seems to be this: If a person is granted the free right to seek, but only if that seeking leads to one place, isn’t it all a lie to make the Faith seem open, when in reality it’s the same as any other system of belief on the planet? How can one search for an assumed truth? Isn’t that like looking for something already in your hands?

Since I study and practice philosophy, this question is dear to me. I hope I can offer something to your query.

First, I wish to distinguish the common sense usages of religious truth and Bahá’í belief.

Bahá’í teachings describe many attributes of God, such as love, peace, forbearance, abstinence from contention and conflict, etc. I presume that a possession of the truth would be indicated by the presence of all these things. Therefore, “believing” in the tenets of the Faith is not “truth”, because one can hold such beliefs and still violate all of its principles.

In support of this, I find that `Abdu’l-Bahá said: “If religion becomes the cause of enmity and bloodshed, then irreligion is to be preferred, for religion is the remedy for every ailment, and if a remedy should become the cause of ailment and difficulty, it is better to abandon it.”

And Bahá’u’lláh wrote, “The purpose underlying the revelation of every heavenly Book, nay, of every divinely-revealed verse, is to endue all men with righteousness and understanding, so that peace and tranquillity may be firmly established amongst them. Whatsoever instilleth assurance into the hearts of men, whatsoever exalteth their station or promoteth their contentment, is acceptable in the sight of God.”

Again, the emphasis is on actual behavior, not profession. That is, religion relates to an essential reality, not an outward form.

I do not believe religion’s purpose is for us to have fixed ideas about things. The stated goal is union with God, and the stages of that union are described in the “Seven Valleys”. Unless I see the signs of such a transformation, either the person has gone nowhere or I was too blind to notice.

“Holding Bahá’í beliefs” can even be a stumbling block to progress in some cases, because it can lead to an arrogant assumption of superior knowledge. “We’re the most recent Faith, and you aren’t.” This is not knowledge, but a bolstering of self by illusions of righteousness. It should not be confused with the Faith, since it is distinctly abhorred by it:

Verily I say unto thee: Of all men the most negligent is he that disputeth idly and seeketh to advance himself over his brother. Say, O brethren! Let deeds, not words, be your adorning.

Second, considering the idea of an undirected, pure search, where the only goal is a deeper understanding of reality.

There is a verse in the Qur’án which says:

Whoso maketh efforts for Us, in our ways will we guide him.

Also, Bahá’u’lláh in one place quotes an Arab proverb which says, “He who seeketh out a thing with zeal shall find it.”

It seems to me from these, and other sources, that sincere effort will produce results, no matter the direction, since purity of the effort attracts God’s aid. “At every step, aid from the invisible realm will attend him, and the heat of his search for grow.” So the question here is: What is her motive, and what is she really seeking? Bahá’ís or not, people who employ religion for a sense of security are totally missing the boat. Do they really think the journey ends with acceptance? The Qur’án says: “Do men think when they say `We believe’ they shall be let alone and not be put to proof?”

Third, the Writings state that freedom of spirit is integral to understanding religious truth, and not the outward assumption of a set of beliefs – and that such a spirit, if it love God, will transform in its journey toward Him. It is the spirit of religion which is significant, not its dogma. And this is attained not through assumption, but purity, chastity, freedom and effort:

The understanding of His words and the comprehension of the utterances of the Birds of Heaven are in no wise dependent upon human learning. They depend solely upon purity of heart, chastity of soul, and freedom of spirit.

Fourth, I see the “Bahá’í Faith” not as the truth per se, but a portal leading to truth. Bahá’u’lláh even states that what has been revealed to Us is according to our capacity (i.e., related to Us), not a full expression of His reality:

By My spirit and by My favor! By My mercy and by My beauty! All that I have revealed unto thee with the tongue of power, and have written for thee with the pen of might, hath been in accordance with thy capacity and understanding, not with My state and the melody of My voice.

So the Faith may spring from the source of Truth, but ten thousand years from now, will not our forbears be amused at our ignorance? For us, the Word of God is truth unalloyed (relative to our state); but even if we repeat the words, we have done nothing but exercise our vocal chords. To experience the truth contained in those words, we must immerse ourselves in that ocean:

Immerse yourselves in the ocean of My words, that ye may unravel its secrets, and discover all the pearls of wisdom that lie hid in its depths. Take heed that ye do not vacillate in your determination to embrace the truth of this Cause – a Cause through which the potentialities of the might of God have been revealed, and His sovereignty established. With faces beaming with joy, hasten ye unto Him. This is the changeless Faith of God, eternal in the past, eternal in the future. Let him that seeketh, attain it; and as to him that hath refused to seek it – verily, God is Self-Sufficient, above any need of His creatures.

Do you see the difference? Someone can say to me, E is mc2, and I can nod back at him and say, “Yes, I heard you just fine.” But a world of difference exists between those who merely hear, and those who understand. To go into the problem, to root out its implications, to nestle it within your heart, and mix its ingredients with the essence of your own being… THAT is seeking after truth. Anything else is pale mimicry.

Lastly, if your friend seeks after truth earnestly, I believe she will find it. I do not know what it will look like, and I must say I’d be surprised if she found it without ever considering – even indirectly – the revolutionary ideas found in the teachings of Bahá’u’lláh. Who before Him suggested that all Faiths had one source, that science is the supporter of religion, that the mind is the mightiest pillar supporting the Faith of God, that women and men and all the races are equal in their spiritual reality, that evil is but an illusion before the reality of good, and that all souls continue to develop eternally in their quest for God? Where else are all the Faiths described as intrinsically united in their purpose, and what else delves into the idea of unity with such depth and completeness? I wonder if what she finds will be the product of a True Mind, and not simply the elaborations of a fellow seeker.

At some point, possibly, her outward behaviors and beliefs may come to coincide with the members of our Faith. But we are not all equal in the status of our search; every human is unique in his condition. To say that seeking will result in following a mold, is like saying that God’s purpose in making people with free-will, was only to transform them into automatons.

In conclusion, I think “truth” is essentially something people do not, and will never, know, because there is infinitely much that is unknown, and truth includes all. Hence the notion of eternal progress and discovery.

It may be “true” that Bahá’u’lláh is a Messenger of God, and that His words contain the wisdom needed by humanity at this stage of its spiritual evolution. But we are not seeking after “true things”. If we were, learning that 2+2 is 4 should make us satisfied. To truly seek is to go where no one else has gone, because how can another person’s experience of life be identical to yours?

I suppose the ultimate dilemma we still come to is: Will her search necessarily lead her to the Bahá’í Faith?

I guess it will or it won’t. In fact, that would be a pretty good test of its truth, wouldn’t it?

There are doves who cry  
a mournful sadness  
when day has fled.

They join the wolves  
who bay  
at the rising of the moon.

Each twilight  
is lonely for its sun,  
faded and gone  
behind clouds of red;

I wonder at  
nights like these:  
how it all became  
so somber, so soon.

How much do we ponder  
the effect we have on each other's lives --  
even if it goes no further than a single day,  
no deeper than a conversation?

Sometimes, our eyes as we walk away,  
or a simple touch,  
or laughter,  
can mean everything to a person's heart.

What we don't see  
is how life prepares us  
to understand this.

In a pause, to remember my life,  
It seems such a crazy jumble of nothing  
Headed inexplicably toward what must be something.

And the daydreams -- those glances of light --  
Are my hope of what Joy might be when it finally finishes resting.

"I've had my heart broken until now,"  
I say to that far-away girl of my dreams,  
"Do you know what it'll take to fix it?"

"No, what?", she says,  
Her eyes alive with the future.

"Oh, nothing," I say,  
"Just that you're there to see me through it."

Do you remember me?  
The quiet eyes  
watching you in dreams  
writing love poems in the sand  
whispering "come", too far away  
for the words to reach your ears...

Do you remember me?  
My heart was left alone  
too long.  
Now it's gone.

This morning I awoke,  
finding a canvas on my wall.

The image was stunning!  
The artist, without peer.

I ran to my neighbor  
and convinced him to look,

But he shrugged, saying,  
"John, it's only a window."

So gentle, the sun's light,  
moving slowly into evening;  
with her words, "I love you," just as softly,  
echoing in my ear.

Young rabbits all white, and baby kittens,  
are playing with my soul;  
while I watch the last, golden ray  
disappear beyond the rise.

I fall in love,  
I fall out of love,  
stumbling around in the dark of love  
like a blind man looking for his hands.

But what is really happening here,  
that I nod in and out like a dreamer, half-awake?

The beauty of the sunrise has always been there.  
I needn't proclaim it, or sustain it.  It manifestly is.  
This, because a work of art has enduring quality,  
if its connection to beauty be true.

So also, perhaps love can be a work of art.  
With sufficient care, and devoted pain,  
one day its nature is self-revealing:

No need to tell my friend, "I love you;"  
the fact of living is all the proof we need.

Concerning the philosophy of Krishnamurti, reviewed from one Bahá’í’s point of view: Any “path” must be a conceived thing, because it directs one toward something by directing them away from something else. These two points must be held in the mind for a person to distingush what is one from the other.

However, while moral teachings are an excellent guide to what behaviors will help clarity, they do not grant experience. No religion is the end it teaches. I believe this is what Krishnamurti was getting at when he said, “Truth cannot be approached by religion”. Such an approach would be like saying that by reading the Íqán a hundred times you will comprehend Bahá’u’lláh’s station. Instead, it is not “religion” that gets you there, but US, our lives, our experiences and interactions with the present. These interactions are guided by religion, but religion does not yield the substance of the interaction itself. If we try to substitute one for the other, this is when “religion” is born in the mind.

The point here is that purity and awareness are far more valuable to the seeker than knowledge or devotion. The Valley of Search, the Íqán, Gems of the Divine Mysteries, all repeatedly – over and over – stress the importance of clearing away obscuring dust from the heart: all attachments, all love and hate, all knowledge and understanding. At one point in the Íqán, Bahá’u’lláh reports a divine saying that one must know at least 20 sciences to understand the mystery of the Miráj; at which point He says that not only will this knowledge not help the seeker, but if he happened to possess it, that more than anything else would be the cause of his never understanding the Miráj!

The individual must purge all knowledge from his heart – “religion” being a form of this knowledge – and not accumulate it. Knowledge must be relegated to its role of helping us function in life, and taken off its pedestal of determining how we look at life itself. You could say that religion is a functional thing, not an endpoint; it can help us, morally, to “unaccumulate”, but can cause the very harm it seeks to undo if we “accumulate” its own teachings.

Which is, fundamentally, the exact message of Krishnamurti. When he talks about “religion”, he means the entity created in people’s minds after they come in contact with new teachings. The mind, seeking something, finds accents of that something in a new Message; and so the mind fills itself with this message, its dogma, its forms, its beliefs – until the mind is so full it can barely hold another thought. And in that state, it will have so far removed itself from the purpose of the Message as to be tragic.

Interestingly, Bahá’ís understand this instinctively when they talk about Christians, or Muslims, or Jews. But they often miss the point when talking about their own beliefs. Haven’t you heard people say, “A true Christian would leave his church and become a Bahá’í”? Well, a true Bahá’í would leave his ideas and become a human being.

For the Writings themselves, while advocating study for the purpose of advancing this world, reiterate ad nauseum that a deep, fundamental purity is the only hope mankind has of perceiving the faint glimmerings of Spirit that reflect in the heart of every created thing. From lack of this vision, men treat each other worse than animals, and fail to understand their common brotherhood. The failure to achieve world peace is not due to lack of means, or plans, or hopes – but is intrinsically a spiritual problem caused by “religion” (not religion). That is, because each person has his “religion” and clings to it like a God, even two Bahá’ís may be seen to argue with one another – despite the fact that conflict and contention are so sternly and categorically forbidden by their Faith!!!

When there is a clear perception of reality, there is no need for beliefs about reality. The soul who sees clearly, whose vision is freed from impediment, has no need of religion. Instead, he applies his deeds and decisions to the Law, and is thus informed of Truth. He is religious by his movement, his spirit, his breath. There is no more conflict between what he is, and what he thinks he should be. He serves men because it is a joyous thing to serve – not because he must. Here religious means “free, real, human”, and religion: an education toward this state. But “religion” is a belief that the map is the territory, the teachings are the reality, the practice is the experience, and so on.

As a physicist recognizes the purpose of natural law, he will cease to contend with those laws, and start working with them; so too religion aims at establishing that kind of spirituality in which what is spiritual is the only way to live. Because indeed, if Bahá’u’lláh speaks truly, that is the “real world”, and the fiction we afflict ourselves with is due to a long-running denial of that world. In a sense, you could say religion is like a band-aid, or a cure, specifically tailored to a very ill patient. Should a patient revere the cure, or deplore his illness? But a wise patient will use the cure until he is well, and then be rid of it.

At that point – when “religion” has been stripped away as the last impediment – what is seen goes beyond description. This is the stage at which people act spontaneously for the Good because it is their highest love. What is it that stands between people and such a perception? It is their beliefs about reality, as opposed to true reality. To put it coyly, true religion is that “unknowledge” which makes direct knowing possible; it undoes the self, that man may discover his being. But if misapplied, it too quickly enmires its adherents until they go to war for the sake of perserving their beliefs about ending war.

Does this make the point any clearer? The “religion” Krishnamurti saw as clinging to the souls of men is the “religion” they have piled on top of who they truly are, and which they use as a defense against knowing what they are: good or evil, mediocre or excellent. But the real intent of it all is freedom – true, genuine freedom – and this does not happen just because a person binds themselves to a different set of beliefs or ideas.

To have this true religion, one must do everything that Krishnamurti asks of us, which is the same as what Bahá’u’lláh, and the Buddha, and everyone else back to the Oracle at Delphi: Know thyself. “He who hath known himself hath known God.” Since knowing one’s self is the most painful, most difficult process possible, it all begins with purifying the eye, the ear, the heart, and the mind. The practices of the Bahá’í Faith are designed to this end, and God will assist us if we use them accordingly; but since humans are allowed to be human, encrustation is always possible – and this is what Krishnamurti deplored so much in the world around him: He saw human beings shrinking from reality in preference to a set of beliefs, and he wanted to free them from that. It isn’t what you believe that matters, it’s what you are and do! Isn’t this same message echoed by Bahá’u’lláh? “Amongst the people is he who seateth himself amid the sandals by the door whilst coveting in his heart the seat of honour. Say: What manner of man art thou, O vain and heedless one, who wouldst appear as other than thou art?”

So I think you will find that the philosophy of Krishnamurti is about understanding who and what you are, and that this knowledge alone will connect you to God and life. But until such understanding has taken place, “religion” – in the form of ideas and dutiful practices – will remain your greatest barrier to Truth.

There is an exercise I’ve been working on for the past week, which has produced very interesting results for me. I mention it here, not to suggest how others should live, but to share what it has meant for me.

A dear friend of mine observed that my behavior often seemed very “fast” or “quick”: The way I serve food at dinner, wash the dishes, drive my car. It also shows in my attitude toward relationships (wanting to figure out everything up front), my chess playing, my approach to work, etc. In so many areas, in fact, that her mentioning it brought to mind the tip of an iceberg: something I ought to pay attention to in order to understand myself better.

One way to better understand ourselves is to do exactly what makes us most uncomfortable. I don’t mean one should live in misery – far from it – but the conflict that arises from discomfort can reveal traits and ideas that would otherwise remain dormant. So, in reaction to my friend’s observation that I was being fast, I decided to try living life intentionally slow.

This has brought about an entire “slowness philosophy” – not unlike some of the current literature on mindfulness. The main idea is to do things slowly: Whatever action I take, I consciously slow myself down until it feels as if I am doing it very slowly.

The first area I tried this in was driving. Not only have I slowed myself down to driving the speed limit, but even below the speed limit (when no one is behind me). My reaction was fairly immediate: First of all, when I drive in terms of where I am going, any speed feels slow. Even going 90-100 mph on the freeway to Phoenix feels like the miles are crawling by. This is driving to get somewhere, and it never seems to go fast enough.

When I slowed down my driving, I had to stop thinking of the goal, otherwise my progress felt painfully slow – which is exactly the feeling I was aiming for. To escape that pain, I had two choices: Speed up the car, or move my attention elsewhere. Since I didn’t want to go faster, I had to do the latter: to pay attention to the feel of the car, the music on the radio, the scenery passing by. I noticed that the more my attention moved from the future (the goal) to the present (where I was), the faster it felt like I was moving. Until it reached the point where I was going 30 in a 35, and felt my car was going too fast – because I couldn’t pay attention to the details on the side of the road.

Once slowness had drawn my attention away from the future to focus on the present, it stopped feeling like slowness. I started to take pleasure in the action itself, since I was forced to ignore the timing of the outcome. I tried this with washing dishes, cleaning up my room, my car, working on my computer – all with the same result: That the action itself became more enjoyable, my heart more at peace, and my attitude more forgiving and appreciative of imperfection. There was a simple joy that came from these humdrum activities, where before I had wanted to finish them as quickly as possible – or avoid them altogether from the pain of wanting them done with. I was impatient for “real life” to begin, and so had been ignoring the very meat of life.

Whether others are racing through their life is only for them to say. I only know that I tend to. My therapist once told me I was a very anxious person, and probably always would be. It wouldn’t surprise me if this comes from being an introvert with ADHD trying to cope with a complex world, a society that places so many demands on our time and capabilities. Whatever the impetus, I have often felt just on the point of drowning, as if I could never do quite enough, quite quickly enough, to keep ahead of the pack. Living slowly, however, with deliberate intention, has shown me a new way of appreciating the minute details of life.

The blue thumbprints of an artist's proof,  
labelled on white spheres of alabaster  
deep set into a skull of ash  
baked in a stone oven.

Befriend the troubled -- his last ray of hope  
as a blooded sun casts shadows  
on the pitiless hearts of those  
who would call him nothing.

Terrified, lonely, consorting with demons  
that abide ever between heart and mind,  
all waiting to lead unwary souls to  
the yawning gates of perdition.

There have been a lot of people asking about the character of Dominique Francon in the book The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. This essay will attempt to clarify her character in the context of that story.

For lack of a better term, let us talk about the characters of The Fountainhead in terms of power. Not derivative power, but real power, the power to create – not simply the role of directing or utilizing others’ power to create. There are six major characters in The Fountainhead, each of which demonstrates a different archetypal relationship to the creative potential of human beings.

Howard Roarke is the pure creator, independent: He has the power to create and uses it, and does not allow that power to be directed by anyone but his own will.

Peter Keating is a wielder of others’ power. He is derivative and dependent. He can only work with what others give, including opinions about his own self-worth. This is emphasized by the fact that Keating must consult with Roark each time he attempts to create a building that is not based on someone else’s plans, or on history’s designs.

Guy Francon is just like Peter Keating, except that Peter was gradually turned from being a creator to being a user. For Peter, it began when his mother wanted him to be an architect rather than an artist; from that point on, he lost his will to create by degrees until he had no capacity left. For Guy, he has always accepted the role of user and feels no attraction to any other state of being.

Ellsworth Toohey wants to make everyone dependent, so that they must turn to him for whatever they need. He, like Roark, is also a wielder of power, but instead of using that power to create, he focuses his energy on removing everyone else’s will to create, so that in the end they must follow his will. This is not strictly the opposite of Roark, but it does oppose the fact that Rand would like all humans to be like Roark – whereas Toohey wants no one else but himself to have that power (and thus he hates and fears Roark, since Roark’s existence runs counter to his plans).

Gail Wynand is also a creator, like Roark, who realizes that people need his power to create – they must feed off of him. He hates this, and in reaction, plays on this need to punish his enemy. Roark’s character does not need to punish anyone, because Roark does not care about people’s need to use his power: he just doesn’t offer it for sale. But Wynand had sold his power to society in order to gain what he believed was the upper hand. It is this realization which undoes him toward the end, though Roark constantly tries to get him to see that there is no reason to care about his past, so long as he gives up on his plan of revenge and turns his attention to creating.

And last, Dominique Francon: She sees that people need her to create, and she also hates this need. Her response is to not give people what they want. By removing her power from the world, it cannot be misused. In this way she expresses her hatred for the world by starving of it of the very thing it needs most. Wynand believed he was causing the world pain by misusing the needs of people, and yet this still allowed them to survive; Dominique wants to see the world die by depriving it of what it needs to continue. Of course, she is also depriving herself, and so there is a kind of suicide implicit in her course of action.

Dominique knows that Roark has this power too, and that the world wants it; and because of the world’s need it will try to harness Roark according to their desires. She tries to stop Roark because she doesn’t want to see this happen. She tries to defeat him because she loves the power he wields so much (which is also an expression of love for herself, because she recognizes this same power within herself). So whatever she does to Roark, she is also doing to herself. For this reason, the relationship between Howard and Dominique can best be understood if they are viewed as one individual acting toward itself.

This is why Dominique wants to be dominated by Roark: because the will to create is sublime and her heart wishes it to triumph – even if that means overcoming her aim of withholding that power from the world. When Roark “takes possession of her”, this is like Dominique’s soul re-taking possession of her own destiny and not letting the world’s need dictate a pattern of inaction (which has caused Dominique’s life to become the antithesis of the world – an exact negative – which means it still has the very form she abhors).

Roark sees that Dominique subjugates herself to the world in this reverse fashion and he shows her the way out: Not to care. Follow the creative urge wherever it leads, and what the world does in response is its own problem. When Dominique finally understands this, she is able to stop living in terms of the world, and this is when she allows herself to marry Roark and join him in “his world” (the world of power, rather than the world of dependence).

At one point in the book, Dominique helps Toohey to attack Roark. This is not because she wishes to see Roark made dependent, in the way that Keating is dependent (which is Toohey’s real plan). Rather, she wishes Roark to understand the evil of the world, and since Toohey is actively promoting this evil, he is its clearest and most direct representative. If Roark sees this, she believes, he will join her in her crusade to starve the world (which becomes the task of John Galt and company in Atlas Shrugged).

Partly this cooperation with Toohey is self-defense, because by not creating Dominique has made herself bitterly unhappy, while she sees that Roark is doing the very things she will not allow herself to do. If Roark can exist in the world, she can too; but if Roark cannot, then she has been right not to try. In this way, attacking Roark can answer for her the question of whether it is safe to develop one’s power in a world filled with people who want to take advantage of it. Roark’s triumph over Gail (which is not really a triumph over Toohey) answers this internal question for Dominique.

How does Roark undo Gail’s plan of destruction? Whereas Dominique wants to destroy the needy world by starving it, Gail tries to destroy it by forcing it to wallow in its own squalor. Gail does this because, fundamentally, he makes the error of believing that everyone feels the same way about human beings as he does. However, the world is just fine with degrading itself, so long as Gail continues to provide them with what they need to survive. This fact is what tires Gail to the point of suicide, just before he meets Roark.

Since the world cannot be shown how disgusting its choices are, and since it’s only desire is to feed off the power of the creators – no matter how abasing that position of servitude becomes – Gail has chosen for himself a pointless crusade. Dominique’s approach would actually succeed (as Galt shows in Atlas Shrugged), although it must come at the price of her own self – a cost Galt avoids by banding together all the creators in a separate society.

But since Gail cannot achieve what he seeks, and realizes his impotence before his enemy, ultimately he does not want to live among them anymore. But then he finds Roark, and discovers in him someone who represents a different kind of life. This life is what Gail and Dominique were born for. (Rand often calls this world “the world we saw in our youth”, because at that time people are unaware of the needy structure of society). When Gail sees this vision, incarnate in an individual (Roark), it gives him hope. He struggles with his hope, at times defending it, at times attacking it, until he sees that his own actions (that is, giving over his creative power to the world’s desires) has been the very reason why this perfect world does not exist for him. This realization ruins him, depsite Roark telling him that the past does not matter: only how we use our creative power matters.

This is what conquers Gail Wynand, in that Roark proves to him the futility, and the wrongness, of his task. And when Dominique, too, sees that the world does not need to be “beaten” – because it is a non-entity which those of power needn’t consider – she is able to join Roark in his world and free herself of her hatred. Gail remains in his hatred, however, because he now hates the world for what it has tricked him into pursuing all his life. Or rather, he hates himself for having allowed the world to draw the lines of battle.

The character of Peter Keating’s girlfriend, incidentally, is a minor one, because she simply represents another version of Keating himself: Someone who started out innocently, but due to parents and society convinced herself that being a user is better than being a creator, until in the end she becomes exactly what Keating is: a hollow shell, to be given a purpose by others who in turn seek their purpose from others (a chain that ends in people like Toohey).

All of these themes are also to be found in Atlas Shrugged: where Galt’s group is similar to Roark, but uses Dominique’s plan to weaken the world and force it to grant them more freedom; and where Francisco d’Anconia is like Roark, but using Wynand’s plan to hasten the world’s destruction so that it must accede to Galt’s demands; and where Dagny Taggart is a kind of “proto-Roark” who unwittingly allows the world to control her power because she has yet to realize that the creator need answer only to her own desire to create.

And the reason why Galt’s group still responds to the world (in Atlas Shrugged) by withdrawing from it? Because of the extent to which the lawmaker’s actions have made it impossible for them to create freely. I believe Rand took this approach because she saw litigation and the patterns of society leading us more toward a world of dependence than independence in the years that followed the publication of the The Fountainhead. Otherwise, I think she would have focused more on Galt’s character independent of the world, rather than give the world she despised so much a second thought. In that sense there is a strange irony in that Roark’s character would never have written a book like Atlas Shrugged – even though it is the beauty and viability of Roark’s manner of living that Rand is trying to promote. I can only understand this as her way of reaching out to a later generation’s youth, who had become so distanced by the mid-40s from Roark’s world that she felt it imperative to present her ideas to them in terms of their own.

The universal crisis affecting mankind is… essentially spiritual in its causes. The spirit of the age, taken on the whole, is irreligious. Man’s outlook on life is too crude and materialistic to enable him to elevate himself into the higher realms of the spirit.147

These days we are caught in a crisis of how to relate to the present. During such a time of upheaval and change, and faced by a world filled with imperfection, we find ourselves challenged to respond.

I believe this challenge lies at the heart of the “mental tests” foretold by `Abdu’l-Bahá. Beholding such a present, our spirit’s resolve is tested in how we react. Which is the right way?

Given an imperfect world, and a knowledge and understanding of the perfections promised, there appear to be two possible reactions:

The first is to strive to rise above that world, objectively analyze it, assess its needs, and begin instructing it how not to be what it is, since what it is is imperfect.

The second is to descend into that community, see it from within as an intimate, share its pain, assess its needs, and offer the message of how to love itself as it is, since the appearance of such love is the real objective.

Love cannot appear if it wait for a better day; it cannot outshine the enshrouding lantern if the bearer be unwilling to open it. In order for love to become the order of the day, it must begin today, with things as they are today – by loving the reality of today.

What is love? We have heard that love is unconditional and all-accepting. Love loves the one who does not love. If others seek to harm us, they do so for reasons of their own: the night is cold and chill, and some grow jealous of the fading embers of their dying hope. Only love can unveil the Sun, and put away all need for earthly fires.

If the world is ravaged by dispute, in the hands of people governed by ancient modes of thinking, there is only one solution: Love both as if such love were the only reason to exist. It is amazing what effect such love has on the human heart; because beneath all superficial coverings, we are God’s children.

No matter how depressing the scene around us – which indicates the state of a dying world – it does not alter this spiritual imperative. If joy is lacking in the world, and we become aware of this lack, the mandate is to expend one’s soul in bringing this joy back to humanity, by reflecting the divine grace from the mirrors of our hearts.

So if there is sadness in the world around us, we are being summoned as its lover and champion. Those who care, who recognize what’s at stake, are in the best position to succeed. But if we also succumb to complaint, how will succor reach the dark places? God’s religion must work through individual hearts.

Thus, a loving community begins when people in that community love each other. For this to happen, we must love without reference to each other’s state. If the situation must wait for our satisfaction, this is not love. Love does not wait for you to come to me. God put us on this earth so our souls could learn love, and for that to happen we need a proving grounds. If everything were perfect, our soul would be deprived of its training.

True love appears when the Holy Spirit makes its home in the human heart. “Show love to all; `Love is the breath of the Holy Spirit in the heart of Man’. Take courage! God never forsakes His children who strive and work and pray! Let your hearts be filled with the strenuous desire that tranquillity and harmony may encircle all this warring world. So will success crown your efforts, and with the universal brotherhood will come the Kingdom of God in peace and goodwill.”148

Loving all humanity – the pugilant and peaceful alike – requires seeing that all are God’s children, and He loves them equally. If He loves them, how can we not? This kind of love is the teaching of the Manifestations of God: “It is the warmth that these Luminaries of God generate, and the undying fires they kindle, which cause the light of the love of God to burn fiercely in the heart of humanity.”149

Avoiding all judgment, criticism, and dwelling on the faults of others: this is love’s challenge. Nor does love wait for anything or for any day; it can exist between souls independently of material conditions. There is only ourselves, God, and God’s children. If the heart is filled with love towards them – as God loves them – we will find ourselves inspired by whatever is needed. Let the soul be satisfied by God. If it is freed from seeking satisfaction in others, there will be little cause for resentment – and events will start to mysteriously conspire toward the goal.

And there is another wonderful side to the reality of love: The qualities of love described so far – of passionately embracing the world regardless of its faults – must also be applied to one’s self! After all, we are His beloved children also.

It does not matter if one is imperfect, or filled to the brim with difficulties and shortcomings. To love, this means nothing. We have been given these imperfections to demonstrate our love for God by striving to overcome them. Having or not having them is unrelated to love – whether from others in the community, from God… or from ourselves.

Loving one’s self in such a complete way is the easiest path to loving others, for it is difficult to treat others with graciousness and magnanimity if we are harsh to ourselves. Some may fear that loving and accepting one’s self will cause spiritual progress to slow, but since the appearance of love is the purpose of God’s Faith, then to really love is the meaning of progress. Where there is love and faith, the smaller details take care of themselves; we are inspired and assisted to find the right course. It is exactly like the mother and her difficult child: if the mother showers that child with love, in most cases it will benefit the child and assist his growth, rather than ever cause him to worsen.

The last piece of this wonderful puzzle is that when we manifest such love, we allow ourselves to believe – from the depths of our heart – that God loves us also, in much the same way. “Thou art more friend to me than I am to myself.”150 Does He examine our faults, or pay attention to our shortcomings? This is not the nature of love. No matter what has happened, or how much one has fallen on his face, it is the Parent’s wish to pick us up and shower us with warmth and solace – never to scold us as we lie there, stricken with sorrow.

Consider how Bahá’u’lláh responded to Mírzá Yahyá, who had poisoned a Manifestation of God, produced a counter-claim to be the True One, whom Bahá’u’lláh Himself had reared from childhood, and yet who tried to damage Him and the Bahá’í community.

Which one of us, by trying, could cause so much harm? Yet how does Bahá’u’lláh address Mírzá Yahyá? In the Most Holy Book He says, “Turn unto Him, and fear not because of thy deeds.”151 If this is not of the nature of love, and of the God Whom we adore, what other proof is there?

When such a love burns like a fire “in the midmost heart of creation”, all are warmed. The problems of the world are due to its fierce winter, its rampant irreligion – meaning, the lack of true religious sentiment. This cannot be solved by bringing more logs to the firepit, or arranging the logs, or seating people correctly. Without the fire burning, no one will understand the meaning of the logs, or of the seating.

But once the least bit of kindling has started, souls will catch on. Suddenly the perspective is right, and everything we have worked so hard to accomplish will begin naturally, collaboratively to appear. Without asking, others will bring more logs, seat themselves correctly, and perfect their hand warming techniques…

So with ourselves. We needn’t move an inch from our present state of development to receive this love. Like the wind, the sun, and the rain, it comes to high and low alike. Once we open ourselves to it, God may inspire us, assist us, and guide us in whatever direction is necessary.

With eyes directed toward God, assured of His love, forgetting our own selves, we may at last respond “Yea, verily!” such that it resounds in every heart. And the form such a response must take is that undying love for humanity of which `Abdu’l-Bahá spoke when He said: “Put into practice the Teaching of Bahá’u’lláh, that of kindness to all nations. Do not be content with showing friendship in words alone, let your heart burn with loving kindness for all who may cross your path.”152

I don’t remember how we came to be in that place, gathered beneath that magnificent tree, its long branches touching the sky. All of us were huddled together, though I don’t know how. Nothing makes sense when I think about it. But I do know we were dry, safe, and secure, wherever we were – and we were also thirsty.

Most of us did not recognize the desire as thirst. It was just a vague burning that kept getting worse. Some tried everything to distract themselves from it. We yearned and writhed, but no solace came. We spoke to each other about it, but did not properly understood what it was. We only knew that something was not as it should be, somehow. Peace eluded us.

Outside the tree it was raining. Everyone could see that, could hear it. What the rain meant, we did not know. Since very few had ever ventured out from under the tree, we took it to be another of the unaccountable details of life. Stories even built up about the rain and what it might be. It was said to strip the flesh from a man’s back, or to induce insanity. Some who went into it never came back. Since we knew that the tree offered safety and security, most of us remained there. We kept to telling each other stories.

At some point a questionable character went off into the rain. He came back claiming it was refreshing, and had relieved the parching thirst of his tongue. He couldn’t drink much, but he was obviously tantalized. He tried to encourage some of us to follow him out, but we couldn’t imagine leaving the tree. I don’t even remember what we did there, though I recall not wanting to leave.

The adventurer did not give up, however. He went out again, for a long while. When he came back, he held something that looked like a gourd. We could also tell, from his eyes, that his thirst was gone. He had found something we needed! Whatever could alleviate our terrible hunger was worth considering. And thus, he told us a strange tale.

The rain, he claimed, was the very thing we needed. It surrounded us always, pouring bounty from the clouds. However, as prodigious as it was, catching it was not easy. Holding one’s mouth to the sky gave a little comfort, but not much. Then he told about the science of the cup, and how it allowed one – given patience – to slowly gather the waters into one place, from which they could be drunk. Even more, it permitted the waters to be carried out of the rain: for example, under the tree. This was how I first tasted what I had been longing for.

He held out the cup for each of us, but we only took a sip. There was not enough for all, and certainly not enough to calm our thirst. If anything, it made us feel worse, the burning more intense. He ran out and back again several times, but the thirst was great and his vessel small in comparison.

He told us we would each have to fashion a cup, and holding them to the sky, walk out from under the tree. We would have to stand in the rain a while, letting the waters fill our cup, and then we could drink, and continue repeating until satisfied. If our thirst returned, we could do the same thing to satisfy it again. The man had offered us a way out of misery.

There were still many under the tree who refused to try, however, not believing the water meant anything – or calling it poison. We tried to tell them, but they questioned the necessity of the cup. So crude and awkward, after all, and the water so formless and transparent. It didn’t make sense how important they were, or the connection between the two.

So, these days I venture out from the tree of knowledge by myself, or with a few others, and hold the cup of my religious discipline to the sky, awaiting the bounty of heaven’s grace to fill my cup. When I drink, thirst is allayed and I see the reason for the thirst, the water, and the cup to hold it. They all exist to bring us together, so that my soul comes out from the tree, and looks up to contemplate the heavens always above me. What strange creatures there; what amazing patterns in the clouds…

This, I think, is the connection between the varying forms of religion, and the ineffable, formless Mystery it conceals.

It was a cold light that filtered down, one winter morning. Lighting up the hoary crust on the bedroom window, it shone on the sleeping eye of one Mariam Reynard, still in the clutches of dreaming. It was at first a rosy light, soft and glowing; then it grew brighter and brighter, causing Mariam to stir and turn and unconsciously lift her blanket to escape. But even through wool fibers the light reached down, touching her mind to wake it.

At last, her eyes opened, and she blinked away the feelings of sleep. She sat up, stretched out loud – and thought about laying down again. Then she remembered the day ahead. It was enough to propel her out of her sheets and up! Outside the day was white and gleaming, glinting from a thousand surfaces that had frozen in the night. The snow was heaped high and soft, ready for anyone willing to play in it. And this was exactly what Miriam planned to do.

Quickly she hurried out of her sleeping clothes, and threw on a shirt and pants to wear under her snowsuit. She brushed her hair back, and tied it with a ribbon. Her mother chided her for being so much in a hurry, but the snow was waiting! Her boats took forever to get on; her jacket arms kept running from her hands. It took impossibly long, but finally she was ready to go plunge into the snow.

When the door opened, letting in that white light of the sky and the snow and the ice, she took in a breath. It was cold, and sting a bit. There was so much of it, the snow: on the lawn, on the driveway, all the way from the curb to the end of the street. More snow that one person could ever walk on, even if she tried until nighttime. What fields of dreams were open to Mariam eyes, shining with the cold light of promise.

Then it was running, falling, rolling and getting back up again. Too much snow! It got everywhere, melting down her back and into her mittens. She laughed. It was such a good feeling, little prickles of cold at the edge of a warm feeling she had inside. She bunched some of it up and threw it far out into the street. It fell straight through, leaving a hole with bits of dribbled snow beyond. Then she lay back, stretched out her arms and legs, and carved images of angles into an icy heaven.

Her breath blew out clouds, and she got tired. It takes work, clearing out holes and building up mounds, making snow men, snow tunnels, snow castles, snow towns. And after all that, only a tiny bit of the lawn had been remade. So much pure, untouched snow. Even all winter’s long, maybe she would never get to it all.

The cold on her face slowly crept down. It tingled at her neck and made her fingers feel stiff and slow. Her feet were like tiny logs. When she stamped them, it didn’t feel like much. Her mittens had long since stopped keeping her hands warm. Now they were a little wet, and the snow didn’t melt very fast when it got caught inside.

Slowly, she reached the point where feeling warm seemed a better idea than making more things out of snow. She stood up, shook off the flakes clinging here and there, and made it to the door. A knock later, and a rush of warm air, Mariam left her winter wonderland.

I remember there was dark everywhere – dark and smoke. The smoke burned at the base of my nose, inside, where one feels the air as he breathes in deeply. It stung, and reminded me that I was somewhere I usually don’t find myself.

I came only to watch him play. He’d traveled three thousand miles from the East Coast, playing at various bars and theaters. This bar happened to be on his route because it was an attraction in San Francisco. I felt that perhaps a concert hall might be more appropriate for an accomplished pianist, but he preferred the “earthy” quality of places of relaxation like this. Here, amidst the dark and smoke, people opened up their hearts to pour out all that was in them. And while open, the heart is in a suitable condition to receive. You might not think that, with all of the emotional release, there would be enough room for anything else to enter (one pictures a boat trying to float upstream), but the nature of the heart is that it is forever pumping in blood at the same time that it’s pumping it out.

The people seated around me tonight, feasting on a chance to expel their garbage of the day, were at the same time allowing his gentle music to settle into their lives, nestling in places of the heart that are only accessible at times like these. Where there is a lack of the genuine, the real and painful, there is also a lack of true sentiment. Perhaps concert hall feelings are more grand or exalted, but at the same time these are feelings lifted up out of an ambitious soul, and not placed there by the artist who, by placing them, gives a gift of his art to those of us without a concert hall to go to.

I find that the notes flow more smoothly, that they are mellower in a place like this. One has to concentrate to separate the music from the noise, but this effort yields a certain reward. Where there is only silence and the music, it is too easy for the listener, and sometimes a thing is more pleasurable if a small barrier keeps us from having it all-at-once and immediately. In some aspects of life, people thrive on frustration. It is not a bad thing, but spice.

He continued playing for an hour before taking his first break. Most of the music was contemporary, or well-known classical. The bar was quieter than one might imagine such a place in the middle of the city to be. About eighty people were seated among the two levels, sipping coffee or drinking. Some sat by the bar, and a small crowd danced slowly in an open area near the window. The piano was back from the center, closer to my table on the far side of the window, and the music lifted evenly through the upper-balcony tables. Some sat listening, as I did, wondering some far-away thing, abstracted in a state of deep appreciation. But this was by far the minority reaction. Most seemed to ignore the music, or to let it flow into a nondescript background of chatter and noise. It was strange to hear Chopin played under such circumstances, but that was the desire of the player, and it was good.

He returned to his bench and continued for another hour, playing favorites that attracted attention as well as others I had never heard of before. It wasn’t until ten o’clock that the people began to thin out. Then more time passed, and the people became fewer still. Once there were about thirty or so, he began to play things more and more inappropriate to the venue: Beethoven, Bach – music which made the difference between a bar and the concert hall even more striking. No one complained, however, and he continued on.

The night was slowed by his music, as he drifted further into the fields of the nocturne. It was during this time that I first heard him play Moonlight Sonata, by Beethoven. It was preceded by a long silence – one whole minute – and the expectations of the group were piqued. His eyes remained closed the whole time, and he sat perfectly still, arms drawn in, almost as if in a kind of pain. I found out later that my perception of pain was correct, but his action was not one of defense. He was calling on the muse of broken love, and dreams out of reach. But none of this did I know then as I heard the first chord, gentle, stroking like a lover’s touch beneath a canopy of moonlight. Was there an ocean near the balcony, and the dinner guests now from another era, standing in admiration as the wan lover spoke of his heart’s sickness, speaking to the cure who sat at her table listening with admiring eyes to his serenade?

Then came the first sigh of agony, colored by hope: the lover, don in a black suit with long tails that hung openly over the bench, and the one played for, with her dark braids coiled in a comely fray about her back. She sat spell-bound, frozen in silence by the sincerity of her lover’s tone. He caressed each note into being, playing the gentle harmonies and rhythms, ever-attended by a deepening current of bass. She was plied, opened by the seeking power of his notes. Above, the cold moon was dispassionate, suffused with the fullness of a black night. The clouds had kept the stars away, but she, in her brightness, could not bear to be absent from this rendering of love. Does devotion call the stars into being? Or do we imagine as our gods those things we feel they ought to be, such as sun, moon, planets and stars? Then if these are tokens of the great mysteries, why is not Love herself a goddess? Not ascribed as the virtue of some seething planet, but a true goddess in her own right: fickle, playful, leaving as dead those who would offer her their lives as sacrifices. That is the god our lover played to, unfolding his melody to an accompaniment of inward tears. Such tears have softened hearts of white granite as Love takes her hold and does not let go. What chance do we have, or reason to submit? But somehow, in her girlish charm, she is able to portray death to us as fairer than dear life. Her poison is true favor, and we, Socratic thinkers all, when offered this cup of hemlock, do trade our one life for another we only imagine. No sign of the future life is given, but for evidences of pain and anguish. It is mysterious that her hold is deeper than the mind itself, reaching through the brain to lay cruel hands on a thing as tender as the human heart. And we submit willingly, with smiles on our faces. This is the mystery hidden deep within the mystery.

He continued playing, not as the heaven-struck lover, but as a simple piano-man playing his song, making me see him as the truest lover I had yet known. I looked at the aimless crowds peering through their glass bottoms and yawning – such that from disgust as well as intrigue I turned back to see the woman in braids giggle as the music became more playful. She understood too well, but yet did not understand. Perhaps women cannot know the secret passion of men, how it surges in us like a groaning sea, desperate to cast its burden on some lovely shore of tenderness and warmth. Again my mind singled out the hoarse, throbbing bass, and I felt my attention drawn there though others be distracted by the playful rhythms above. The bass was electric, whispering, strong, subtle and yet patient in a manner that was agony. The damsel’s face remained innocent: did she refuse to realize the menacing tone of that bass? It, below, sent up froth in a mighty wave that pounded on her shore of precious grains. And above, the thoughtful melody separated those grains through kindness and soft-spoken words. Man is both these halves, and though often a woman would have only the one, yet she is doomed to both if she would have a man in her life. Gentle women! You must know the double-mystery, or else find some way to calm the roiling current which stirs always in our breast. I hate to be a man for this at times, but then I realize it is the lens through which I view the world, and without it everything would be blurred and indistinct. It is the dark that pulsates through the left hand, dark and ever-cursed as the side of evil and mischief. But the right hand, honored and a title of trust, is the voice we use to speak where our worlds meet. This is our song: the sound of an anguished lover, fingers on ivory and clutching at the vacant hollow of his flesh. He sings to the woman in braids who can only ever half-understand him.

I could feel the image slipping away as the song reached to its gentle conclusion. The player paused, feeling more silence was necessary, then decided it were best to take another break.

Late into that night, when everyone had left, I asked the man how he had played that song so deeply, and what story there must have been behind it. He smiled, and gazed deeply into my eyes to see if I would understand his answer. He said, in a very simple tone that vastly differed from the rarefaction of my own soul, “If you want to play the Sonata, you need to remember only one thing: that each hand is different. You can’t play them the same as you would play Chops or something simple like that.”

Then he looked even more intensely, and waited a moment. The air drew apart between us, and a curtain lifted to reveal his eyes of penetrating green. He said, with his eyes and with his words, “And remember always that your left hand is the tone of your passion, and the right is what you reveal of that passion. Don’t reveal it all, or you might scare people away, because not everyone can contemplate the passion that dwells in some. But rather mete it out, soft and gently through the right, and those who can hear it will understand.”

With that he closed the piano and stood to walk away. I felt like asking more, but my voice was silent as he continued toward the door. But before leaving he turned, and looked once more with his green mirrors into the depths of my soul. And for a moment, only a moment, I swear that I saw the reflection of a distant woman in braids.

With his hair waving in the wind, Zan Shin laughed. His beautiful hair was black, flowing in unseen currents that played along the wind like a dancing spirit.

His horse complained of the ride, but trudged on. They had been going all night on these dusty trails – the sound of frogs croaking in the long grass, the hidden moon behind the clouds. It was an evening of white clouds against a black sky, dividing the vast field of stars like enormous ghosts fattening themselves on the dark.

They rode until colors awakened in the far sky, bringing a glow to the horizon. Not until the horse almost collapsed did they break for a rest. He was chasing after someone – who in fact was as tired as he; but every minute counted in this battle of time, and it was only moments before his prey reached the border.

Resting briefly, Zan Shin examined his horse. It could go no further. Perhaps it would die if he pushed it to the next town. But these were times of life and death, nor will avoiding death always merit the life thus bought. So he climbed on his wheezing mare once again and dug his heels into her flanks. She staggered, faint; but then mustered the energy and continued on.

They struggled this way until the town. Surprisingly, his horse did not die, though it would be a long while before she rode again. So he left her, and continued on a young, faster breed at dear cost. It was worth it, however, in light of the goal.

Thus they sped on, the cropped-hair rider above his shimmer of new speed. Legs flashing over the trail, Zan Shin could no longer make out the animals and insects as he passed them by. He could feel in his heart they were gaining now, just as he somehow felt the weariness overcoming his fugitive. The intensity of their ride linked them as surely as night chases the sun. They rode madly, each of them, incarnations of insanity – but with a purpose so intent, it created new destinies.

After several hours Zan Shin caught sight of the other rider just cresting a hill. He was moving slowly, unable to renew his mount at the previous town. He straggled and swayed, but with a strenuous, fighting spirit. It was a display of energy where there was no energy, the fury of purpose ignorant of worldly concessions. They moved impossibly, weaving up and down the grassy hills toward the western borders. But Zan Shin gained; his strength was magnified by the feeling of new muscle beneath him, and he would not be outdone.

Finally the rider ahead sensed Zan Shin’s determination and came to a stop. At least a rest before meeting. He allowed his horse to collapse on the ground, and took a seat in a clearing of grasses. His eyes closed, and he followed Zan Shin’s arrival by the sound of hooves – by their beat upon the ground, and the echoes he felt in his heart.

Zan Shin was then next to him, motionless. They waited: the rider above and his enemy on the ground. They waited and listened to the breathing of the air, the sigh of the wind. The clouds forlornly moved against the sky, the sun showed an infinite patience to climb. For a long while there was nothing but the depth of silence, in which they both took their rest.

With this fulfilled, Zan Shin drew his reins and dismounted. He walked over to the other, who was named Qi Yin, and waited. There needed no words. Everything had been understood by the chase. Qi Yin kept his head level to the ground, his eyes closed. Yet their gazes met in other ways, and they stared at each other long and hard. Too much was understood, too much exchanged. It was awful: the full, blazing clarity of that exchange. Neither could tolerate it, and neither could look away. They endured it as payment for what must come.

As the minutes took on a guise of hours, and each second passed far beyond its natural limit, Zan Shin began to move. He placed his feet beneath the line of his shoulders, and exhaled a breath. He felt his spine linking his pelvis to the heavens. The balls of his feet pierced the Earth – mantle and core – and his breathing became like a bellows that stokes coals in the furnace of the gut. His eyes would have gleamed fire, had they not been close to weeping. So ferocious was the will behind his eyes, in fact, that one expected the wind to begin turning in devotion around his head.

This presence demanded the response of Qi Yin. In admiration, respect, and foreboding, he sank into himself, while lifting his whole body as though pearls straightened upon a string. So lightly, so easily did the crown of his head raise up, that Zan Shin expected he would make his escape by floating into the clouds. He could not allow this, so he clasped his hand on his sword. At this, Qi Yin became hard, and snapped to an attitude of perception. He too played his fingers along the hilt of his weapon.

“Qi Yin,” began Zan Shin – using words, that their battle might take place in worldly ways as well – “you have travelled long and hard. For this I would grant you rest, and a meal, before our contest. But I have little hope you would honor it, given what has happened. So it must be now, both of us too weary to give our best.”

“I understand.” Qi Yin had a look of raw flint, as if drawing his sword might cause a shower of sparks to distract Zan Shin. Careful of this, Zan Shin made himself flow along the lines of the spirit: to see without seeing, to listen to what was not said.

Qi Yin smiled then. His eyes smiled a laughing, easy smile. At this, Zan Shin was assured of his readiness, and the deadliness of the contest. He bowed his head, and when their eyes met again, it began.

There is no way to depict how their swords leapt from the scabbard like two silver tigers; or how their arms wielded them, as two dragons flapping their wings into the sky. The sun’s light burnt more golden, more fiercely, in response to these men. Steel rang against steel, bright notes that pierced the air for miles. The grasses leaned, hoping to avoid the fray; the wind found ways to flow around them. It was neither too cool, nor too warm. The day was early, the ground firm. With reality thus suspended, the two became like a cyclone all of sharpness and edges.

At one point, a drop of ruby essence was flung from the melee. It splattered against a small rock, inches from a waiting grasshopper. Unnoticed, it soaked into the earth and was lost. From whom, could not be said. The two moved with such speed, it defied separating them into this or that combatant. In truth, there was only one soul on that battlefield then: one epic soul locked in struggle with its own essence, pitting all the evil within it against the onslaught of justice. It longed for both outcomes, both results – even as it prayed for a lone victor. The soul cannot hate either part of its nature – -nor cease to long for an end to their striving.

These two that were one played edge against edge, stroke against stroke. But as all things must, at one instant there came a weakening – an act far enough from perfection, it allowed a crack to form. Into that crack wedged a blade of shining steel, and it went deep. It coursed through sinew and bone, dividing the essence of a body as surely as it parted the spirit from flesh. Until at last it found the beating heart it sought, and plunged in thirstily. Then it drew back, slick and oiled with its foe’s life. At that moment what was one became two – and again there was a fighter and the fought: a victor and his vanquished enemy.

Zan Shin drew back, attentive to the choking sounds of Qi Yin as his spirit fought to make its way from this life. They locked eyes one last time, and Zan Shin watched the tortured soul arise from its place of hiding.

“There can be nothing more for you from this life,” he told the spirit. “Be gone now, to where you must.”

Qi Yin gasped, and fell to his knees. In his eyes flickered a dark mystery, something Zan Shin would not grasp until his fated day. Thickened blood welled upon Qi Yin’s tongue, and flowed to either side of his mouth. Speech was taken from him, but his eyes bade a last farewell, and awareness of the mastery Zan Shin had shown him that day. It was a lesson spent upon the earth at a cost of priceless blood, but Qi Yin would take it with him as he departed. He closed his failing eyes against the cool wind, and bowed his head at last, never to rise again.

Zan Shin touched the cold length of blade to his forehead. “And to you too, stealer of lives; and also preserver, in your own way.”

Then he climbed his mount, and turned back toward the sun, high in the east. It was a fine day still, but the magnificence somehow lessened. As it must be, whenever brilliant souls depart the world.

In the skies above the ocean sat a cloud to dwarf the heavens. It was light grey, dark in patches, and occasionally flashed bright during a late summer’s eve. It drifted slowly, but never left the sea unattended. It stood dark and tall between the rays of the sun, and the wide, ponderous deeps – which were always blue, and surged in countless waves.

The cloud was truly a matrix, giving birth from time to time to tiny raindrops condensing from its vaporous mixture around airborne dust. The cloud’s countless billions of watery children joined in blocking the light, making it an immense band of gray in the sky.

Once, one of these drops was born to its lofty life with a question: What am I? Why am I here? He was no different from the others, no less humble in his origins or simple in his needs, yet he burned with this question. Day after day he would ask it, but no one answered. “We are here just because”, they would say; or, “This is how it’s always been.” But the question would not leave him.

The other drops grew in size over time, adding infinitesimally to their moisture, still centered on the speck of dust that generated their being. Whole societies and echelons were created – of course based on the size and disposition of one’s water.

The questioning raindrop also grew, but could not see a reason for it. Everyone else was doing it, so he did it also. After all, loneliness is sometimes worse than a burning question. Most of the drops were quite proud of their size, and boasted their dimension. They formed hierarchies among themselves, and constantly compared their growth to others’. In an airy kingdom of liquid beings, certain raindrops reigned supreme.

At times – indeed, often in certain seasons – whole colonies of drops would give up their competition and drop suddenly from the sky. “Jumpers”, they were named. It was seen as a terrible madness that must be contagious. The rest avoided sharing their demise with much fervor, refusing to associate with anyone who had even known a jumper. Society was a precious thing, and well worth preserving.

About the jumpers, the questioning raindrop wondered most of all. Where did they go? What became of them? He considered these questions deeply and long, for days and hours on end, not noticing how heavy he became, how gravid from all these weighty thoughts.

The other drops respected and feared him both. It was said those who grew too much or too fast were bound to fall. Although his social standing was impeccable, they saw the look of a jumper in his eyes. So he avoided their high society, and kept to himself among the drifts. He was a stranger to his own family, and hardly spoke to anyone. Since he tended to follow the air currents, without thinking about it, they began calling him the wayfarer.

One day, when the sun shone especially strong, and his wandering had led him to the bottom of the cloud, the wayfarer caught a wide, blue glimpse of something wonderful. Gleaming with light, he couldn’t understand what he saw. It stretched as far as the drop could see – which was considerable – and seemed alive with a strange purpose of its own. What was this thing, which the wayfarer had never heard mentioned before? Could this be involved with the fate of the jumpers, a sort of graveyard they added to over time?

Moving to the bottom of the cloud for a better view, the raindrop peered as intently as he could – but made out nothing more. It was a mystery, and would remain a mystery. But faintly, so faintly he could barely discern it, he felt something reaching back from the expanse, seeming to echo his regard. So faint it was, at first he thought he’d imagined it. So he tried once more, gazing for long minutes into the myriad waves – and again felt an unquestionable sense of response. Further, it was not an indifferent feeling, but one of profound understanding and regard. It compelled him to look deeper – if only to know that feeling one more time.

Soon the drop spent most of his days contemplating this great, wide thing of a sea. His friends were forgotten – and soon forgot him. Society abandoned him. No matter the weight of his water, a drop with so little respect deserved none in return. They turned their back on him, but he did not notice. He thought, and prayed, and reached out with his being to that wonderful thing below – and each time felt it reach back. There was a bond that formed between them, a connection, and every day it grew stronger.

Then one day the drop noticed that nothing held him back from the sea but his own willingness to remain apart. Every drop was suspended in the cloud, but how? They had grown by attaching water to an insignificant grain at the core of their being, carried there on the winds. It was the insignificance of their size keeping them aloft, bearing them and all their water across the mysterious realm below.

So the wayfarer resolved to balk this mindless following of air currents, and started to move downwards, toward the sea. Of course, everyone else could see what was coming. They hurriedly moved apart, lest they be contaminated by association with a jumper. And because they moved, he was less attached to the general flow, and found it even easier to move downward. At first slowly, then imperceptibly faster, then faster. The other drops hurriedly shunned him, and he fell still faster. Then he truly began to fall.

In the society of his birth, they bemoaned his “fall from grace”, as they called it. One so promising had violated all the responsibilities of his potential. He had failed them all.

Soon velocity tore him from the cloud, and he was in truth a jumper. The wind whipped past his fragile form, shaking him and straining every fiber of his being. The wayfarer grew frightened, and wondered if he could survive the journey much longer. As well, the home he’d always known started to recede behind him, at the same time that the great blue rushed up beneath. The air brightened, and was soon full of light. Vast, strange beings sped past, while still he gained speed. Soon he was completely stretched out, and felt the essence of himself ripping apart. Again he prayed, but this time it was for firmness and steadfastness – for the courage to endure the journey.

The wayfarer raced to his destiny. At a certain point his speed changed, and right then he knew he would survive. Although the forces were tremendous, they grew no worse. The constant pain became familiar, and he learned to understand it – even thrill in the new depths of feeling they allowed. The cloud become a distant thing, and the ocean a huge, immense plain. He could feel its beckoning now, much stronger, and its powerful love and pride at his progress. Could he have, the drop would have willed to go faster – even allow his being to be torn apart – just to reach that loving presence a moment sooner.

As the ocean rushed up to meet him, the drop’s mind and heart filled with a grandeur that can never be repeated – and he fell headlong in love with that great being of the sea. He forgot himself, and offered his own soul in admiration for its massive waters. Whatever the society of clouds, if truly they value a drop’s weight, they should esteem this fathomless Being beyond all measure. How strange they did not seek its fellowship, or race down, as he was doing, to find it.

In the final moments, just before all consciousness was lost – to be replaced by a consciousness broader and more profound than any a drop could conceive of – the wayfarer wished to give a token of his love to the sea. Because he had nothing but water – and the ocean knew all there was of the mysteries of water – the drop try to reach his arms wide, and however feebly he might, to hug the wide width of the sea.

With puny arms flailing in the wind, and an eagerness far greater than his form, the wayfaring raindrop offered his arms to the Ocean, and was straightaway consumed by an embrace that taught in an instant all there is to know of love. For in the end, the drop had found his answer – the same answer – to every question he had ever thought to ask.

Quietly before the rains,  
the breezes tremble:  
moist, warm, eager.

Ever falling raindrops,  
a look of silence,  
the sound of the wind.

Scattered clouds above,  
dancing amidst the blue,  
conjuring sun.

Yesterday: wet palm leaves  
bowing to the applause  
of raindrops.

Whenever you speak to me:  
I am the sugar cube,  
you are the rain.

I lie in my bed,  
dreaming of yesterday --  
then you stir.

The rich, creamy fog  
blowing in like a dream  
envelops even my sighs.

Tapping eaves full of snow --  
my muffled surprise!  
So cold, the struggle.

When I unfold your picture,  
my blood and my heart:  
not regular, not now.

See the red-green frog  
tasting mosquitoes?  
Hasn't found his favorite yet.

As I listen to Chopin  
my heart unfolds --  
I even feel the honeybees.

The mother bares her breast.  
The crying babe.  
The silence.

When I read your letter,  
the clock's hands  
like two bearded dervishes.

Comes the evening  
of this hopeless longing,  
only the moon, the sky so red.

My hair lies about me  
in tattered heaps.  
Such grief.

I see my friend across the room.  
My hands wave wildly,  
and paint the picture of hello.

When mystics gather round  
the fire is lit  
before the logs are brought.

Coffee skin; eyes, chocolate --  
a dollop of cream  
between the lips.

Gossamer skirts  
that trail in the breeze...  
attendant ghosts.

A giant dipped his hand in the sun,  
leaving a white thumbprint  
between the stars.

A silver fish leaps;  
a grey cat watches...  
and nothing more.

The birds in lazy, looping circles.  
The clouds have gone.  
Not a sound.

The wet sand remembers  
where my feet go,  
but easily forgets.

Inhale the salt air...  
one of those times  
you taste with your nose.

Beneath the pale of mid-day,  
birds are weaving  
but forget their thread.

The night, the moon lonely;  
a still, reflective silence,  
the waves murmuring below.

Trees upthrust from the soil  
reach for the sun  
and do not look back.

A conference among the clouds,  
the flash of argument;  
tears of reconciliation.

Blurred images of speed,  
plummeting, racing --  
a small, quiet splash.

The heat! like a blanket  
I simply can't remove.  
I stick to the bed.

The falling rain:  
how unorchestrated in its sound,  
how symphonous.

Only a thousand stars tonight;  
the lights of the city  
consumed the rest.

The swift river flowing past;  
a motionless fish  
is swimming fiercely.

The following analogy looks at the relationship between effort and progress, and how sometimes we chastise ourselves for the wrong thing. We link progress to the result of our effort, rather than to advancement of the process.

Take for example a thirty-speed bicycle. If we get on when the bicycle is in 30th gear, then no matter how much we struggle we will never get anywhere. We simply don’t have the capacity to overcome the static friction involved with gear ratios of that kind. So instead, we start out small. It’s best to start with the smallest gear first, because that is how a bicycle is meant to be ridden.

Effort on a bicycle should be gauged in revolutions of the crankshaft per minute – not the distance traveled. This is because fifty revolutions per minute in first gear results in a much smaller distance traveled than fifty revolutions in 30th gear. However, it takes the same amount of effort in both cases to turn the crankshaft.

I think we are too hard on ourselves if we equate progress to distance traveled. This frustration leads to us pedaling furiously in the lower gears, while constantly berating ourselves because we aren’t traveling fast enough. Then we try to pedal even harder, or stop in desperation. But even if we reach 1000 revolutions per minute, there’s simply a fixed limit on how fast we can go in first gear, and therefore how far we can travel.

The answer is to shift gears, but only when our pedaling has exceeded the capacity of the lower gear. Shifting before that time actually degrades the quality of our effort, because we waste energy competing against inertia. It’s better to stay in the lower gear until the advantage of that gear is used up, and then shift. Just because we’re in a higher gear, doesn’t mean we’re doing better. Unless we’re ready for that gear, we only waste precious energy. The proper course is to start out in first gear, pedal until the potential of that gear is fully met, then shift and continue.

After a while, we will finally reach 30th gear, and our pedaling will achieve the maximum efficiency possible. But this only happens after having advanced the process of riding a bicycle for a very long time. Pedal, shift, pedal, shift: that is the process. The only thing we as riders can do is to advance that process. We have no control over the speed of our bicycle other than pedal and shift.

The key is to reward ourselves for consistency of effort. Keep pedaling. When we reach the limit of one gear, shift, and then keep pedaling at the same rate. If twenty revolutions per minute is too easy, and we know that we have a greater capacity than that, increase the rate. Keep pedaling at your highest possible rate, but gauge your progress on the consistency of your pedaling, rather than how far you have gone, or how fast you are going. Consistency of pedaling is the thing we control. Speed cannot be changed directly, but only indirectly, as a result of an ongoing process. Bemoaning our slowness has no effect on the speed of the bicycle. There is no other way to ride quickly except to ride slowly at first, and then to advance the process over time.

The purpose of bicycling is to travel. But the process of bicycling is to turn the pedals, and change gears when the time is appropriate (and not before). We should keep our sights on the destination, and constantly pedal to attain it, but all the while gauge ourselves on our pedaling, because it is by pedaling that we reach the goal. God might remove obstacles, or present shortcuts, or maybe even lift our bicycles off the ground for a little while; but unless we pedal, we will reach nowhere. Pedaling and direction should occupy our full attention, but certainly not how far we have gone, how far we have to go, or how fast we might have been going in another gear.

There are many analogies which have been used to portray the soul’s relationship to God. The following is a brief summary of some of them, highlighting features that offer an insight into this basic spiritual relationship.

A servant and his Lord

A true servant serves his Lord selflessly, without any thought for himself.

If the Lord is entertaining someone, he acts invisibly, coming and going, tending to the guest’s needs before he is himself aware of them. The guest feels loved and cared for, without realizing the cause of this care. He is aware only of the Lord’s graciousness.

The servant is ever watchful to see what his Lord will need, and strives to act before the command is given.

Usually he has very few possessions, only enough to maintain his health and ability to serve, and is not occupied with a private life.

He lives to serve, and finds joy in fulfilling his Lord’s desire.

The lover and the Beloved

The lover is devoted to his beloved, and seeks at every moment to be with her, or pay her some service.

If the beloved should speak to him, or write a letter, or give him a gift, he relates everything to the beloved. That is, he sees in her words a proof of interest: in truth he does not care which words are used, only that they confirm the bond. If she writes him a letter, the words are secondary to their meaning, which likewise is secondary to the significance of the letter itself – did she write it to say goodbye, or ask him to return? And if she gives him a gift, the gift is ignored next to the fact that it was a gift given to him by his beloved. He hardly notices the gift itself, seeing in it only the token of his beloved’s favor.

When apart, he dwells only on the next time they will be together. He cannot help but mention her to everyone he meets. His longing to see her is not from duty, or obligation; in fact, any other activity is painful since it means being away from her.

The valley and the Mountain

The valley magnifies the grandeur of the mountain; that is, by its lowliness it emphasizes the height of the mountain.

It gathers all the waters that flow down from the mountain, since it dwells in the lowest place.

Anyone who wishes to make a pilgrimage to that mountain, their way is made easier by entering through the valley.

The drop and the ocean

A drop has independent form and substance, while the ocean is a vast reservoir of this substance. When the drop merges with the ocean it disappears, yet its substance remains.

The Father and his son

A father is forever anxious for his son’s growth and well-being. He would never do anything to harm him. And any harshness he shows is always for the son’s future benefit.

The mirror and the Sun

A mirror reflects the light of the sun faithfully. When one looks at a perfect mirror, they cannot see the mirror itself – only what is reflected in it.

The painter and his painting

The painting reveals the genius of the author, and allows others to see the products of his imagination. Yet, the painting does not excel the author. Its essence is of another kind entirely, and serves always the painter’s fame, not its own.

The world we live in is one of transience, flux and malleability. Yet the ideals we hold are the opposite of this: our sense of virtue, for example, is meant to hold absolutely – in all cases – or we must acknowledge its merit as incomplete.

How it is that human beings can spend their life immersed in one quality (transience), and yet dearly wish for things of an opposite quality (permanence)? It is puzzling friction between the life we live and the hopes we cherish.

How this friction came to be, and what it signifies, is my question.

Our consciousness is invested in a body torn by storms of change. Our physical being, emotions, life – nothing is certain to last even till the end of the day. One would think our thoughts would also be characterized by this trait, since it constitutes the fabric of our existence. I mean, if change is the dominant reality, why consider other modes of being? Animals deal capably with constant change, and focus on no goal but the task at hand.

Yet human beings spend life seeking the opposite of their “natural” condition. We want uninterrupted peace, unalloyed blissfulness; we shrink from thoughts of death; the need for change is constantly debated. It would seem that inwardly, we strive to erect structures wholly incompatible with life as we know it.

Even our awareness of the transience of material existence is an indication of something unique in humans, since consciousness requires distinction. But what else is there, not caught up in the impermanence of the world? Concepts are only mental. We cannot say that “one plus one” is a constant, as nowhere in the world do we find an instance of “one plus one”. There are only objects, differentiated by their physical characteristics. The association of count or quality is something later superimposed by human reckoning. There is nothing inherent in the formless flow of things to suggest law or lawfulness.

Our impulse is to deny the lack of general rules. This very inclination shows how strongly our motivation for perfection drives us. It is strong enough, that when faced with the idea that our “knowledge” is but a fiction – relative to the current state of our ignorance – the natural reaction is to view this with absurdity, to reflect upon our understanding of the matter, and quickly convince ourselves that sufficient evidence exists to prove the rule. The “rule”. Our hearts long for the rule.

Imagine a world with no rules, where every “known” is but a crystallization of ignorance around a certain subset of unreasoning chaos. The further we reach into the depths of this chaos, the more profoundly our assumptions collapse and founder. Soon, we come to doubt existence itself, or our capacity to know anything at all. The mind advances toward a realm with no name – as any term used to describe it would be caught in the same prison of non-meaning.

Faced with this, we seek a way to step out of the problem. We take a moment, reflect on the chance happenings of the world (in a manner removed from their immediate occurrence) and arrive at a pronouncement to describe them and how they relate to our past and future.

What is the agency that can remove itself from the circumstances of the one experiencing the removal? It would seem impossible, like an unaided man jumping off the surface of the Earth. Can a fish think of a world without water? The world it experiences, by its nature, would make such a place impossible to conceive. One could more easily understand his own non-being, than dwell mentally in a realm which for him does not exist.

But somehow, the mind does go to this place where the mind cannot be. The finite, limited, ephemeral experiencer, “man”, casts his line beyond the shores of the infinite, and comes back with concepts to defy all common experience.

How he accomplishes this is impossible, if we deny any part separate from the contingent world. Do the animals conceive of absolutes? Human beings expect them! We grow upset if our plans for the future fail, even though no future exists for a being whose only experience is of the rapidly changing present.

It is perhaps, as Plato thought, by our likeness with the eternal that we are able to contemplate eternal terms. By some unknown association with the single, the perfect and the indivisible, we are able to recognize similar patterns in the indeterminate world of change around us.

A mind who contemplates absolutes will find them more akin to his nature than not. This is not said as a truth, but from observation. People experience emotional difficulties when faced with change, finality, indeterminacy or unpredictability. On the other hand, we take great comfort in the “known”, in general rules that predict future behavior, in things that are bounded and follow an orderly pattern. Order appeals to our aesthetic sense.

The only conclusion, it would seem, is that we are actually strangers to the world we live in; or at least, estranged by an inward inclination. Perhaps this is the footprint of our “soul”.

The aim of the appearance of the Blessed Perfection – may my life be a sacrifice for His beloved ones! – was the unity and agreement of all the people of the world. Therefore, my utmost desire, firstly, is the accord and union and love of the believers and after that of all the people of the world. Now, if unity and agreement is not established among the believers, I will become heartbroken and the afflictions will leave a greater imprint upon me. But if the fragrance of love and unity among the believers is wafted to my nostrils, every trial will become a mercy, every unhappiness a joy, every difficulty an expansion, every misery a treasure an every hardship a felicity.155

After thinking about the meaning of “ego”, an image came to mind of a vessel filled with water, afloat on a gigantic ocean. The purpose of the vessel is to keep the water contained within it separate from the rest of the ocean – even though they are of the same substance. No matter how long the vessel might drift upon the water, it will always remain separated from the rest.

Human society today has bottled up the spirits of men and women, just as though the waters of the ocean had been separated into individual containers. Imagine what it would be like if the whole Pacific were divided into one gallon and one pint jars; not the whole ocean in one huge tank, but divided up into millions of tiny vessels, each separating one part of the water from the rest.

Every attribute we know the ocean to have would disappear. Without the union of the water, there would be no surging waves and no currents. The fish could not swim, and reefs would be impossible. It would become a dead place; or at least, if the fish still lived, it would hardly be called an enviable existence. The waters they were used to roaming in freely would become tiny, cramped spaces, where each could only hear his neighbor moving – but never see him.

The Pacific would become utterly still. Looking out, we would see endless rows and columns of vessels – perhaps of many shapes and colors – but without motion. The sea would be stilled, because the currents which once flowed through it would have lost their course-ways.

I think such a sight seems horrific. The most wonderful attribute of the Pacific, or of any ocean, is its amazing fluidity: the way that the waters ceaselessly press upon and caress the shores. It gives me great peace to watch the waters move, knowing that beneath the waves a whole other world takes place.

Yet despite the horror, isn’t this what our world has become? We seclude the most sensitive part of ourselves within a boundary that might be called “ego”. This prevents the ocean of human life from surging in the vast waves of progress that we all long for.

If one’s spiritual nature could be called the fluid and dynamic aspect of his person – that essential “being” which survives any sort of mental or physical change – then by releasing ourselves from the prison of self we would allow our communal essences to commingle and blend.

In the ocean there is no concept of a fixed amount of water. A gallon poured in is immediately irretrievable. But a gallon jug thrown in can be pulled out with that same gallon intact, down to the last molecule.

Perhaps we seclude ourselves in order to preserve what we perceive to be our individuality. Yet this seclusion only prevents the waters from joining, and precludes the appearance of those very aspects which make the ocean livable. Imagine what it would be like if the souls of all men became blended in such a way that we were not just united, but even as one soul: just as one does not point to a certain part of the ocean as say, “see, that part of the ocean is separate from the rest,” rather every part of the ocean is considered “the ocean”. When ships drown at sea we do not blame a particular part of the sea – the sea as a whole is held responsible. The waters of the ocean are viewed as a single body of water, and likewise the souls of men would be regarded as one soul.

What the surging of the human sea would look like, I have no idea. The days of global unity are not yet here – although it promises to be glorious.

Once when I was watching a film on the desert, they showed a water tower standing in the middle of an wide open plain. Around the tower were thousands of mirrors, each tracking the light of the sun in order to aim it at the tower. Above the tower was a cistern, filled with water, which would then boil and produce electricity by the pressure of the steam. Thus, by employing the simple principles of unity and reflection it was possible to produce energy using nothing more than mirrors, water and sunlight.

It would seem that we are like those mirrors and at the center stands the goal we are all looking toward: lasting peace. This peace is held up by the latticework of a sound administration, awaiting each of our individual rays to heat it up and bring out the energy that is latent within it.

Above, the sun shines down its rays bountifully and without discrimination. But the rays alone are not enough to activate the cistern. The task involved – and indeed this is the only real problem to be solved – is how to get the mirrors to align unitedly toward the tower.

When we, as a race of spiritual beings, are turned firstly toward the Sun, and secondly toward the tower; that is, when our reflective nature is aimed primarily at the Sun, and our orientation is such that we reflect the light of that Sun on our appointed task; then an energy will be produced such as we have never seen before – though it was always present – since we had never realized it until that moment.

It would seem that when the barriers of self that separate us from one another and Our Beloved are finally dropped, and when the divided waters of the Ocean are finally merged into a single sea, I think humanity will witness the very thing which all the Prophets of God have professed as Their ultimate goal and purpose. It would be a society in which the waters need never be separated again – not separate from one other, nor from God, neither from happiness nor tranquility. In such a world we would never feel alone again. Instead of seeking to preserve our individuality to the exclusion of such a reality, we would work towards bettering the condition of the entire sea itself.

Such a state of being could only be described as the Kingdom of God on earth. Now, while I have no certainty that this is the way such a thing will come about, it seems to me that the Writings stress very greatly the importance of harmony and unity. Religion, a Latin-derived word stemming from “re-ligare” – which means literally “to bind or fasten together again” – has been called by Bahá’u’lláh, “the highest means for the maintenance of order in the world and the security of its peoples.” The Guardian declared, “… the purpose of religion to be the promotion of amity and concord.” He said of `Abdu’l-Bahá that “… The Master often denied Himself any station just to maintain the unity of the friends for that was His primary object.” We have often heard the quote that, “If religion proves to be the source of hatred, enmity and contention, if it becomes the cause of warfare and strife and influences men to kill each other, its absence is preferable.” Bahá’u’lláh likewise commands us: “Ye have been forbidden in the Book of God to engage in contention and conflict, to strike another, or to commit similar acts whereby hearts and souls may be saddened…” He tells of the Báb that “… A fine of nineteen mithqals of gold had formerly been prescribed by Him Who is the Lord of all mankind for anyone who was the cause of sadness to another…” And in the ninth Ishráq of the Tablet of Ishráqát (Splendors), Bahá’u’lláh reveals that “The purpose of religion as revealed from the heaven of God’s holy Will is to establish unity and concord amongst the peoples of the world; make it not the cause of dissension and strife. The religion of God and His divine law are the most potent instruments and the surest of all means for the dawning of the light of unity amongst men.”

With this in mind, perhaps the reason why religion has been given that very name (i.e., to bind together again), is because, for whatever reason, we have somehow become separated and through the agency of God’s Will we will be enabled someday to join together again in spiritual harmony. If the laws of nature were allowed to prevail, I am sure we would end up bathing in each other’s blood. However, it is powerfully cogent to me to think that since we are beings of such tremendous capacity, then as a race there would also exist some as yet unrealized potential – a treasure which the key of God’s Word has been destined to unlock in the hearts of men. Perhaps the existentialists believe that life has no purpose beyond the evident happenings that we see, but isn’t it more appealing to the mind to think that we are all moving toward something definite and spectacular? Perhaps toward a pattern of existence which defies all current models of human interrelationship. The design of the pattern has been laid down by the Manifestations of God; the raw material has been handed us by Providence; and the yearning to build it has been fused into our very core. I think the most fulfilling thing any one of us can do is to throw down everything we hold dear, embrace one another, and discover a wealth stemming from unity that far exceeds any possession we could ever own.

On this note, I would like to close with a quote that a fellow Bahá’í shared with me which I had never seen before. It certainly seems to indicate something wonderful awaiting us in the coming age.

O ye friends of God! Today is the day of union and this age is the age of harmony in the world of existence. “Verily, God loveth those who are working in His path in groups, for they are a solid foundation.” Consider ye that he says “in groups,” united and bound together, supporting one another. “To work,” mentioned in this holy verse, does not mean, in this greatest age, to perform it with swords, spears, shafts and arrows, but rather with sincere intentions, good designs, useful advices, divine moralities, beautiful actions, spiritual qualities, educating the public, guiding the souls of mankind, diffusing spiritual fragrances, explaining divine illustrations, showing convincing proofs and doing charitable deeds. When the holy souls, through the angelic power, will arise to show forth these celestial characteristics, establishing a band of harmony, each of these souls shall be regarded as one thousand persons and the waves of this greatest ocean shall be considered as the army of the hosts of the Supreme Concourse.

What a great blessing it is when the torrents, streams, currents, tides, and drops are all gathered in one place! They will form a great ocean and the real harmony shall overcome and reign in such a manner that all the rules, laws, distinctions and differences of the imaginations of these souls shall disappear and vanish like little drops and shall be submerged in the ocean of spiritual unity. By the Ancient Beauty, in this case and condition, the blessings of the great ocean will overflow and canals shall become as spacious as an endless ocean and each drop shall become as a boundless sea!

O ye friends of God! Strive to attain to this high and sublime station and show forth such a brightness in these days that its radiance may appear from the eternal horizons. This is the real foundation of the Cause of God; this is the essence of the divine doctrine; this is the cause of the revelation of the heavenly Scriptures; this is the means of the appearance of the Sun of the divine world; this is the way of the establishment of God upon the bodily throne.156

But perhaps the theme of my post isn’t very clear. I apologize if it seems to ramble. The basic idea is that unity is by far the most important goal for our community to strive toward. Even knowledge, though it may appeal to us all, is little more than a tool to be put to use by our spiritual natures. And like any tool, such as knives or the like, its usefulness is only worthwhile so long as no one gets harmed in the process. Otherwise, abandoning it entirely is far better than some kind of Pyrrhic victory, when the road to our dreams has been paved by the broken hearts of our loved ones and friends.

Change occurs naturally. It has always, and will always occur. The direction of change is something we can participate in, of course. At the same time, we cannot help BUT participate in change. There is no way we cannot become a part of the changes in the world around us.

Thus, how we participate in change is the only variable. Clearly, the change itself is not significant, because change will happen whether we are alive or dead; in fact, even if there were no humanity, the world would still change. It has been doing so for five billion years, according to the scientists, and will continue until it changes into something else entirely.

To my thinking, this underscores the fact that change is not significant. In fact, change is free; change is unavoidable. Change is a natural condition that results from the passage of time.

So for us to desire change is to desire what we already have. Some will say, then, that we must desire a particular kind of change. But given our limited ability to conceive the limitless interconnections between things, how can our minds truly architect the kinds of changes we want? Even after ten minutes, so many billions of lives have interacted, that we can never predict the outcome of what we do.

This is much like prayer. In many prayers, people pray for two things: 1) what they want, and 2) how they want it. Praying for the first is understandable and expected. God will answer every urgent prayer. But the world is complicated by nearly infinite interactions, and only God understands how they fit together. Only He has a mind qualified to conceive an answer to 2. When we pray for our desires to be achieved a certain way, we almost certainly never get what we asked for, even if 1 is answered!

Desiring change in the world is very similar. When we say, “we want world peace”, we often envision what this will look or feel like. Example: Muslims prayed for hundreds of years for the Mihdí. God answered them. The Muslims killed the Mihdí.

Our own life is a microcosm of movements at large in the world. We are praying for our own Mihdí, usually in the form of wishing for a certain change in the world. But at the same time, we desire this change to take a certain shape, flavor, or course; maybe a certain speed, manner, or approach. And when the desired change arrives, it’s never exactly what we desired.

Look at people who want a certain wife, husband or career. The number of truly happy people that I know is zero. All of them complain in some way about the next set of changes they want. Even those who have accomplished what they set out to do! Because at the moment of accomplishment, it’s never exactly what they envisioned.

Why do I bring this up? First: to say that change itself has no merit. It’s everywhere, as free as the wind. Second: intending to direct change is impossible, due to our finite nature. Third: hoping for a particular outcome of change is impossible, since we cannot anticipate the unknown.

And yet, change is a necessary, fruitful part of life. This all leads me to one conclusion: the focus of our life should be something other than change! This means living intensely in the present.

Lest someone suggest that this attitude precludes effective change, I will ask, what does it mean to live in the present?

If I am living in the present, I am acutely aware of my current circumstances, and what is around me. If cricket is trapped indoors, I see it, feel its pain echoed in my own heart, and release it. Not because I desire a different world, one in which the cricket does not suffer; but because his suffering is my suffering, and so I respond naturally, much as I might have scratched an itch.

If I meet someone starving for love, do I give them love to change their unloved state of being? Do I hate their unloved state so much that I must destroy it, to create a loved state? After all, God’s creation, at that moment, included an unloved individual. Whatever the past may have been, it is natural that right now this person is experiencing no love. Therefore, it is what it is.

Perceiving this, I feel a natural desire to respond to their need. Their need is my need, since we are both human, both creatures of God, both hungry for love. I offer them love not because they need it, but because the situation brings it forth from me. Loving the present, the shape of my love flows to fit the needs of the moment, and at this particular moment, the response is one of caring. At other times, it may be appreciation, excitement, respect, etc.

Change will always happen; but seeking change is empty. Merely by allowing my own being to exist naturally, positive change will occur around me. It cannot happen otherwise. If you poke me, I will exclaim. If I see suffering, I’ll desire to undo it. If I hear a question, I’ll want to answer it. Not because of a certain future I wish to uncover, but because your question is my question; we are both walking on the same path.

Then, there is change for the sake of change, and change that is the natural outcome of responding to one’s circumstances. Is it an invasion to be myself? If so, then everything is an invasion: time, the sun’s light, everything. An invasion is when a foreign element seeks to enter something unnaturally. Like when I want to create love as a response to hate, without love being the origin of my motive. It’s like trying to force a pill down the throat of the present, in order to win a better future. This is fruitless, hopeless.

Also, the present is perfect as it is. We will always exist in the present. This is where our trials occur, our joys, our opportunity for perceiving the divine. When people describe it as “immature”, or “undeveloped”, I think to myself: people will always see it that way. In a thousand years, people will still castigate the present the way we do now. People were doing this a thousand years ago. The present never seems perfect to us. Always, always, always, people look to the future for fulfillment. Either in their life, their job, their spirituality, whatever.

That’s the flaw. Civilization is not going to become perfect, or better. Because no matter how long we wait, “better” keeps getting redefined at every stage. Compared to half a million years ago, we are the ultimate society! So why aren’t we all dancing and having parties? Because comparative judgment suffers from the flaw of arbitrary selection: you can pick whatever view of the present you wish, depending on whether you look forward or backward. People who do this will continue to do this. The present will always appear the same in a relative way. Its details may alter, but it remains essentially the same to the person who looks at it.

The only way to break this cycle is to fundamentally alter our relationship to the present. Not to the past or the future, but the present. Change is bound up in time, and does not exist in the present. Neither does love or light exist in the past or future. Love is our spirit’s response to the world we see before us – period. We don’t become more loving by waiting for better circumstances.

Let me reword that last point: Change happens in time, but love happens outside of time. Therefore, love occurs before change. Change cannot bring about love. If we love, change will happen from that love; if we hate, change will happen from that hate. Change itself is ambivalent, universal, impersonal.

To create true change, then, we must love the present that we see before us. This present is perfect, and without flaw; only our perceptions make us think otherwise. And if we love the present unreservedly wonderful changes will flow naturally from that love. Not as an invasion, but as a mystic dance in partner with everything around us.

Accepting the present is the hardest thing, because it doesn’t happen in the mind or heart. Only spiritual change can affect the way we view the present; only eyes of faith can see beyond what is apparent, and perceive the mystic unity of opposites that our body’s eyes can never see.

So, how do I love existence? To me, that is most fundamental of all questions. Here I am, one who has listened to religion. Religion tells me: love all that is. I ask it right back: how do I love all that is? Because from this, every other thing precedes. If I love all things, there is nothing that will not solve itself in time. If people loved all things, war would be impossible; social inequality would be impossible, prejudice would be impossible. The world’s transformation occurs when people learn to love, which is the purpose of religion.

If this is religion’s purpose, then maybe religion is necessary for it to occur. If a philosophy, drug, or experience could make me love all things, it would be the easiest thing to do. My mind works well enough to read any book in time; I could easily swallow a drug, or seek an experience.

But love is the hardest thing, the most basic thing, and yet somehow the easiest thing. Because the possibility of accomplishing it is in the present. It’s always right here. There’s no book I need to read, or experience I need to have. All of the ingredients are right here, right now. Time is not required for such a change, nor wealth nor ability nor circumstance. Somehow, I exist “but one step away”. “Swift as the twinkling of an eye ye can, if ye but wish it, reach and partake of this imperishable favor, this God-given grace, this incorruptible gift, this most potent and unspeakably glorious bounty.”

Then the answer must be something marvelous, glorious – beyond time and space and future and change and argument. Something that requires only a timeless moment of realization. A call to God, a moment of quiet, a single effort – who knows what will burn up the veil?

What I am certain of is this: if my energy is bled away seeking a change whose ramifications I could never master, which would more likely than not cause more sorrow than joy, then I will have no heart left to seek this ineffable path. The desire for change is the beginning of all suffering, says Buddhism. To be freed from this desire causes the heart to awaken, and when it does, the love proceeding from this realization washes over everything around you.

Christianity has always seemed to me to offer religion as an alternative to damnation. Follow Christ, because through Him your sins will be forgiven. This is a very welcome message to anyone who feels inherently guilty. The doctrine of original sin then seems to make complete sense. And so we are carried into the organization, to be baptized, and to breathe a great sigh of relief for now we are saved.

But please read this for what it is: the initial perceptions of a child of fourteen, who could not understand the whole concept of latent sin, and therefore gave up the entire prospect of religion. This is the time when I became an atheist.

The doctrines of honesty and kindness were easy enough, because as long as one follows them (and they are quite simple in their rules), one is justifiably beyond reproach. Violating them means that the scales of justice must be rebalanced, but once that is done, again one is OK.

Against such a model, religion seems to set up an incredibly complicated system, where honesty, kindness and the other virtues are merely part of some larger game, whose rules we were never meant to understand. Somehow we accept the fact that we are by default “in the wrong,” that the scales can never be rebalanced by our own efforts, and that we therefore stand in need of an All-Powerful, external Being Who will allow us to escape the punishment we were otherwise destined for.

Yet even this is not guaranteed – at least in the brands of Christianity I was familiar with growing up. Consorting with the wrong kind of people could just as easily send you to hell as giving up the church. Faced with this impermanent salvation, I again discovered that the scales were forever off-balance, and that the omnipotent deity who was to secure my rescue demanded constant propitiation in order to keep up his end of the bargain. In this respect modern “ecclesiastical” religion is no different from the ancient cultures who make sacrifices to the gods each year in order to ensure a steady crop. If we let down our guard, the deities are immediately going to return to the realms whence they came, and then we are left on our own. Completely on our own. And needless to say, because of our imperfection, and the fact that the scales of Justice forever demand rebalancing, it’s no longer possible to continue living without that deity’s protection.

This is such a simple, “pray for the rains” theology that it is surprising how inveterate it has become, even in the belief systems of modern day. With the advent of Christ, it became more glorified, and more intricate, but at heart the formula is identical. Man is bad, and does not deserve. God covers for man, and now man can live acceptably. But man must continue to implore God, or God will leave man, and man will perish.

Isn’t this the idea of those street-corner preachers who say, “Repent, for the end is near!”? The idea of expiating guilt is so attractive for anyone who feels guilty (and I am certain that many of us feel guilty about something, for life is a thing of mistakes), that it becomes a very strong selling point. And perhaps this is why the current generation has become so heedless: because they are aware of this “moral economics” and are disgusted by the fact that the only real result is that the church gets fatter every year. Now that their sins are forgiven, so what? They have to live in constant apprehension of drawing all those sins back again with the least transgression. It’s like a judge who suspends one’s sentence at court. The individual feels somehow lucky, but now he is afraid that on the next occasion he will have to pay for both the old sin and the new one. This is not a very complete salvation. At least not given the time and money that it costs.

Some sects offer permanent salvation. Once you have accepted Christ as Lord, this is both the beginning and the end. Do what you like, for your faith has saved you. Of course, you should still try to be good, but it doesn’t really matter all that much. The only catch here is that you have at accept Him through a particular church, and remain a member of that church. I’m not very experienced with these kinds of churches, but it surprises me that they aren’t more popular.

The thing to notice here is that all of the focus is on the suppliant. Where is God mentioned, except as the Saviour of the otherwise hell-bound soul? Isn’t He, after all, the Creator, the Source of all Good, the Knower and the Seer? It would seem that if religion were anything, it would be a source of knowledge about Him, since no other science or art can tell us anything about Him directly.

This is the special purview of religion, this authoritative knowledge of God. Church is where one goes to discover the mysterious fact that there is another world beyond this world, one based on love and fellow feeling, rather than brute force and power. All these things were created by God, Who has placed more capacities within us than we are yet aware of, and Who has much more in store for us then we have witnessed so far. The key is to make ready our perception so that we might be capable of comprehending the deeper mysteries of life. This requires a purifying our mind, turning our sight away from baser things, directing our inquiry to the soul and its needs, and providing it with the nourishment it requires to develop the capabilities it has been endowed with.

Nothing but religion can educate us about the needs of the soul, for only God understands these needs, and so only God can tell us about them. This He does through the mechanism of His Messengers, or Prophets, sent is just such a fashion that only those who are truly interested will listen long enough to find out what they have to offer. This is done because Beauty is only for the eyes of those who will appreciate it. Think of something astonishingly beautiful, and special, in your own life. Maybe this would be a sunset viewed from a particular spot, or the enveloping silence of a certain grove at a nearby beach. Now consider who you would bring there, to share your special place. Would it be just any one, no matter how crass or insensitive? Or would you reserve those places for only those people who possess the sensibilities necessary to apprehend what was being offered?

God, too, has something wonderful to share with us something that is open to all. But only those whole hearts are ready can enter, because otherwise it would be waste, like a painting created for a blind man. This He achieves by tailoring His message with exactly the right amount of craft, such that it be ignored, or cherished, based on the predilection of the hearer.

But my point is that religion is about God, and not about the question of our salvation. This plays a part, but not as expiation of our sins; rather it is about removing those obstacles which would prevent from perceiving His beauty. This is what is meant by salvation; to be awaken from a slumber which would have caused you to miss all the wonderful glory of life.

This morning I finished re-reading Eugen Herrigel’s lovely little book, Zen and the Art of Archery. It takes no more than an evening or two to read. In it he describes his attempts to learn the Zen art of archery in Japan, and his experiences along that path.

Which led to an interesting correlation with the Seven Valleys. In Western thought, education is a matter of imparting knowledge, and sometimes also imparting the wisdom to apply that knowledge in life. In the East, the approach is radically different. The Master seeks to develop a particular condition of receptivity in the pupil, at which point he introduces experiences designed to take advantage of that receptivity. Sometimes developing this condition can take years of seemingly pointless exercise (from the seeker’s point of view), coming to a head like a thunderclap in a single moment of unexpected clarity.

The Valley of Search describes a developing of the seeker’s heart that is decidedly Eastern. To understand this from a Western perspective, consider what is like, as a youth, to want to fall in love with someone. Most people very much want to fall in love with someone special, and they spend a great deal of time thinking about it and dreaming about it. Yet, the advice most often given is to stop thinking about it! To just “let it happen” in its own natural time. The only thing the prospective lover can “do” is open himself for that moment when it comes. And when it does come, it is like thunder on a clear day. Unexpected, yet undeniable. The lover need not ask anyone, not even the Master, if he has fallen in love. It is a proof unto itself.

Yet, there is nothing that can be “done” to hurry the process. For some it takes a few months, for others it takes years, and for some, never. There is no telling when, or why, or how. The best approach one can take under such circumstances is to be patient, and use the time alloted to develop themselves, the purity of their heart, so that their their spirit may be most attractive to whomever one day chances by. When combined with faith, we are saved from melancholy by the assurance that if we undertake this self-preparation in search of Him, then “In Our ways will We guide him”. The seeker is guaranteed not to be disappointed, though the wait may be indefinite and seemingly interminable.

The Eastern Masters regard everyone as capable of understanding what they teach, but not everyone is capable in their current state of appreciating it. To “tell” is to push the desired goal even further away. Instead, the seeker must be kneaded like dough, made easy and pliable, and then struck at just the right moment with a jolt from the unknown.

Reading Herrigel’s book helped me realize that a Western approach can make the Valley of Search seem more difficult than it really is. If the parallels are accurate, the segue into Love will be sudden, unquestionable. But it cannot happen “… unless he sacrifice all things. That is, whatever he hath seen, and heard, and understood, all must he set at naught…” The seeker who has any preconception of his goal may wind up chatting away with Him and never knowing it. He must become like a child waiting for milk, not understanding the hows or whys, but only the certainly of its arriving. He truly cannot judge whether he has made progress or not, or even which way will lead further along his chosen path. For the seeker there is only “purity of heart, chastity of soul, and freedom of spirit”. There is neither knowledge nor experience to guide his way, only a hopeful expectation of clemency.

In a way, this is both profoundly frustrating and immensely relieving. It is frustrating to Western habits, because there is nothing to “do”, nothing to “know”. There is no aid or technique that can help in the least. At the same time it is relieving because it is a matter more of relaxing than of tension, of letting go than of receiving. “Love is a light that never dwelleth in a heart possessed by fear.” We are invited to let go all our fears – clasped to the Breast of our true One – and as Rumi says, “lay his head on a person’s chest and sink into the answer.”

It is at once so much easier, the easiest thing, yet immensely more difficult since it does not admit of expectations, hopes, or predictions. Must we wait one year or ten? Am I closer now or was I closer then? These are nonsensical questions. To a soul who lives an eternity, what does it matter if the answer comes in one year or a thousand? And that the time is hard to bear is directly addressed by His statement:

The steed of this Valley is patience; without patience the wayfarer on this journey will reach nowhere and attain no goal. Nor should he ever be downhearted; if he strive for a hundred thousand years and yet fail to behold the beauty of the Friend, he should not falter. For those who seek the Ka`bih of “for Us” rejoice in the tidings: “In Our ways will We guide them.”

As nearly everyone has found, this principle cannot be applied brute force. Enemies are enemies, and no tweaking of your eyes will see them differently. It’s like pain: there’s no way around the fact that it hurts.

However, as with pain, the context determines our underlying response. People who train at a sport endure pain constantly – by choice. If you ask them, “Does practice hurt?”, of course it does. But they willingly submit, again and again, and in many cases look forward eagerly to the next time they encounter this pain.

They do that because it’s fun; because the pain is part of something bigger that they love; and when love is involved, pain becomes transmuted into something that feels the same, but is perceived differently.

Back to enemies: They are a kind of pain that is part of the practice of spiritual life. The soul must learn how to love in this world, so that it may use that love to participate in the next world to the greatest extent. Yet it is too natural to love our friends; that’s automatic, and even animals do it. Yet to love our enemies, that is special. Only spirtual maturity can manifest love toward pain and hatred.

So we can’t do it because the Writings say “we should”. No one plays sports and enjoys the pain of it “because they should”. Spirituality makes sense only if it’s always about God, and not about the individual. Thus, when one has fallen so deeply in love with the True One that he yearns and prays for any and every access, suddenly pain is seen as a doorway: since it is by pain that our spirit’s faculties increase.

To see such pain, and our enemies, as propelling us toward our Goal, makes us happy because through them we near that Goal (“…rejoice not, save that thou art drawing near and returning unto Us.”) And when this knowledge fills our heart with joy, that joy overspills and makes us thankful to the ones who had helped us the most to get there: our enemies.

Then there is no one more helpful in our yearning for God than our enemies; as Bahá’u’lláh wrote:

God is my witness! Had it not been in conflict with that which the Tablets of God have decreed, I would have gladly kissed the hands of whosoever attempted to shed my blood in the path of the Well-Beloved. I would, moreover, have bestowed upon him a share of such worldly goods as God had allowed me to possess, even though he who perpetrated this act would have provoked the wrath of the Almighty, incurred His malediction, and deserved to be tormented throughout the eternity of God, the All-Possessing, the Equitable, the All-Wise.158

The soul who does evil hurts himself, but he aids those who strive for God. In the compilation Crisis and Victory, Bahá’u’lláh says: “Even if all the losses of the world were to be sustained by one of the friends of God, he would still profit thereby…” The concept of fire transmuting base iron into a glowing, liquid heat, is a metaphor that explains why the circumstances favorable to the iron will never allow it to reveal its luminous potential. For that, trials, tribulations, pain – and even enemies – are necessary.

For this reason I think we should love our enemies: because they are in truth our spirit’s best friends. I even wonder if, in the next world, they will not occupy a very special place in our hearts – because whatever place we reach to there, in terms of our spiritual station, will have been made possible largely through their influence.

In computer engineering-particularly chip manufacturing-there is a concept called a “substrate”. A substrate is a medium for design; that is, it is the actual substance that a computer chip’s design is imprinted upon.

The whole idea of a computer chip is that it directs the flow of electricity coming in through one or more of its input pins, to a variety of locations situated elsewhere in the computer. This flow is governed by a design, which is very much like the flowing of water along canals. Canals have to be dug somewhere, however; without dirt, even the best of architects cannot create anything.

Dirt is to the canal builder what a substrate is to the chip builder. The most common substrate is silicon, but there are others. The main point is that even if there are huge amounts of electricity and the best of designs, without a substrate, neither can influence the affairs of men. It is then only an idea, or a lofty concept. The rubber does not meet the road until a substrate is provided.

In like manner, so it seems to me, the Fund is to the spiritual designs of Bahá’u’lláh what a substrate is to the chip manufacturer. Bahá’u’lláh has fashioned a New World Order, and provided for our lasting peace, but unless the physical mechanism for conveying this vital energy is erected, humanity will not receive its benefit.

By giving to the Fund we offer exactly that material ingredient. Our money goes toward the expansion and maintenance of the Bahá’í Administrative Order, of which Shoghi Effendi wrote, “Bahá’u’lláh has given to the world institutions to operate in an Order designed to canalize the forces of a new civilization.”

These forces are spiritual in nature, and hence intangible, in the way that water is intangible and will slip through our fingers if we try to hold on to it. If we wish to bring that water to someone, a vessel is required. This is how the material serves the spiritual. And this, I believe, is how the fund relates to the communication of those energies latent in the Bahá’í Faith to the rest of the world.

Glory be unto Thee, O Lord of the world and Desire of the nations, O Thou Who hast become manifest in the Greatest Name whereby the pearls of wisdom and utterance have appeared from the shells of the great sea of Thy knowledge, and the heavens of divine revelation have been adorned with the light of the appearance of the Sun of Thy countenance.163

Living as Bahá’ís, we hear the syllables of the Greatest Name pronounced very often. Either in the greeting “Alláh’u’Abhá”, or the phrase “People of Bahá”, or even in “the Abhá Kingdom”.

Exactly what is the Greatest Name? “Bahá” translates for us into the word “Splendor” or “Glory”, but just by changing the form of the word from one language to another, I don’t think we approach any closer to understanding its meaning.

I was thinking of this in connection with the ninety-five recitations of the Greatest Name, mentioned in the Kitáb-i-Aqdas. To utter something so many times, which has so little meaning for me, can be a very troublesome thing.

Translating the word from “Bahá” to “Glory” put me no nearer to grasping the power of this word – after all, Bahá’u’lláh designated it as the Greatest Name. This implies that there is a deep, spiritual mystery surrounding the use of this word, which we must delve into to discover what it truly means.

Even the English word “glory” holds little meaning for me. I remember a Persian friend telling me once that the key difference, for him, between Persian and English words was that he could feel the meaning of Persian words. That is, if someone were to say “roshan” (meaning “bright”), he could feel his heart immediately flooded with the brightness of a white light. But the English word, “bright”, conveyed to him little more than an abstract sense of something being bright, as opposed to its being dim.

This is very close to my own experience. Merely uttering the words, “God is Most Glorious”, does not cause my heart to thrill; so it must be something else. The glory here intended must refer to something entirely different: alive, transforming, vibrating with power in the very heart of existence. This is the meaning I would like someday to understand.

Perhaps it would be worthwhile to begin by trying to grasp what the word is directly, without referring it to English. That is, let us not think of Bahá as meaning glory – and from that try to understand what glory is – but rather, let us accept this word “Bahá” as an independent creation, and develop with it an entirely separate relationship in our minds.

Bahá, then, seems to me to be possibly something like this: When the philosophers of old determined that life held a greater meaning than the commonalty often assumes, they decided it was worthwhile to give up all attempts at gratifying physical desires in pursuit of this higher meaning (since that was the only way that could keep their minds clear, and centered on the task). Their desire to pursue this course, and their faith that some prize lay at the end of it, seems to have originated with the influence that love has on the human soul when it apprehends beauty.

Let us imagine a youth, living in the city of Athens, who is gifted with a sensitive heart. He is “fresh from the mystery” – as Plato would say – his soul having only recently descended to Earth from the heavenly mansions (the Greek philosophers believed in the transmigration of souls, and hence those who were predisposed to appreciating fine virtues must have only just come from the processions of the gods).

This lad finds that he is enamored of all beautiful forms. Whether of a man or woman, he finds in the perception of physical beauty something to delight his soul. He therefore endeavors to spend great lengths of time with the objects of his affection, and spares no cost in setting aside as many days as possible for this pursuit.

However, in the course of time and education, he becomes aware of other things, by nature more intangible than physical forms, which he perceives as being more truly beautiful than human figures. That is, he graduates to seeking beauty in the images of art, or the sounds of music; or he searches out the great poets of the city, and sits by with wondering eyes as they remind him of the mansions from which he has only just arrived.

Yet this too, after a while, begins to pale. Now he looks for beauty in the complex interrelationships of life, or in the marvelous structures of nature. After this, he seeks beauty in the primacy of thought, and strives after education in the fields of geometry, language and philosophy.

Finally, by “scaling the ladder of beauty”, he passes beyond mere words and thoughts, and wings his way to the domains from which such lore proceeds. He becomes an acolyte of the subtle mysteries, wandering distracted in the plane of search, and roaming far beyond the skill of any language to recount his far-flung journeys.

Coming back to our discussion: We see there is a common thread here attracting the youth. It is this essential quality that is the true object of his search. At first he finds this aspect apparent only in physical forms, and then in less tangible works, and finally in just such nether regions as only the mystics tread.

Although the Greeks were predisposed to calling this quality “beauty”, they also gave it other names, such as Truth, Love or Virtue. In fact, it was a thing so awe-inspiring to them that they could not contemplate continuing life without it.

The name I would give to this essential quality of creation is “Bahá”. It is the generating heat that flows even as a life-blood into the nature of all wonderful things. Consider that in this same era the greatest fate for any man was to “die a glorious death”. Yet the act of dying itself was not what was desired, but a great, noble beauty in the act of dying.

This same attribute, ascribed of a worthwhile death, can likewise bring tears to our eyes when we witness an act of complete and loving sacrifice by one human being for another. Such as when, in times of war, a person is willing to lay down his or her life in order to save the lives of others. Do not such actions stir something deep within us that causes us to “believe in the human spirit” again?

This attribute I would call Bahá: a sort of incomparable luster that attends anything great, noble and beautiful. Not just the glory of a valorous death, but also the beauty of long friendship, the delights of knowledge, the peacefulness that comes from “following the Right Path”, the joy we experience when it seems that God’s presence is near. There is an aspect to all of these experiences which appears connected by a unifying thread; it is the culmination of everything splendorous and glorious that human life has to offer.

If Bahá is such a quality, then what must be Abhá? For in the Arabic language, Bahá is the attribute, and Abhá is its superlative expression. It is the difference between Glorious, and Most Glorious.

The phrase “Alláh’u’Abhá” literally means “God is Abhá”. What would it be like if the greatest manifestation of the name Bahá that we knew were to become magnified, in respect to that quality, by a thousand or a million-fold? And if, beyond that, after our souls had already expired from attempting to reckon it, this quality were to multiply yet more, and still infinitely more, until nothing whatsoever could possibly reflect the brilliance of such light?

Perhaps it is clearer, then, what might be signified by the cry “Ya Bahá’u’l-Abhá” – that is, “O, Bahá of the Abhá”. Herein the relationship of the Manifestation to the Unknowable Essence of God is clearly laid down. Note the use of the indefinite word Bahá, paired with the definite “al-Abhá” (that is, Bahá may appear severally, but only one Abhá is signified). Men can never know Abhá, even though it caused the foundations of creation to come into being. Bahá, then, is the reflection of that Essence as it appears to us in the world of the knowable. Even the title, “Bahá’u’lláh”, fits into this mold, for it signifies Him as the Bahá of God (Bahá’u’lláh), while God is Abhá (Alláh’u’Abhá): “Manifold and mysterious is My relationship with God. I am He, Himself, and He is I, Myself, except that I am that I am, and He is that He is.”164.

So, when I attempt to recite these foreign words ninety-five times in the privacy of my home, I think to myself that Alláh’u’Abhá is telling me something incredibly significant. It is informing me that God is the Ultimate Goal of my soul’s yearning; that everything I incline to in life is due to some attribute of His obtaining within it. Yet we can have no direct intercourse with His Essence. Hence the indescribable grace vouchsafed to us through the Manifestations of that Essence, Who exist in a form we can perceive (albeit dimly) through Their lives and works.

Alláh’u’Abhá is then a statement which represents the very essence of faith, since we can never verify it through our own understanding. Thus we direct our prayers toward the shrine of Him Who is the Remnant of God. He represents our only knowledge of Him, and our only access into the Kingdom of Abhá.

This would seem to indicate that the word Bahá signifies everything that our heart might desire in this world, for our aim in pursuing them is the fulfillment of some craving for God within us. Just as the moth, who was created with an inborn need to follow the light of moon, becomes distracted by the flickering candle lights from continuing its journey, so too we, who were molded from the “clay of love”165, whose very being is that of the “lover”, are asked by God: “how dost thou busy thyself with another?” It seems we have become distracted by these paler lights, and yet I think it only verifies that it is the essence of the light we seek, and not the poorer expressions of it we find here on Earth.

So we crave the attribute of Bahá, in whatever manner it express itself in the world of being. Whether it be the pleasure of relaxing in the sun, or the delights of fine music, or the self-immolation we experience in times of love – all these things attest something that is ultimately primary, and which has been fused into the very core of our being.

In this manner, Alláh’u’Abhá is a token of grace, for if it were a question of our own merit, we would never be permitted to approach such holy precincts. Then again Alláh’u’Abhá is an expression of the primal mystery, the “meaning of life”, the fundamental, unifying equation that all men of learning have sought. Or Alláh’u’Abhá indicates our essential unity with one another; that nothing exists outside of God; and therefore all things are rightly “merged into nothingness before the revelation of Thy splendor”. For who are we, of ourselves, alone? “How can utter nothingness gallop its steed in the field of preexistence, or a fleeting shadow reach to the everlasting sun?”

Through the words of Bahá’u’lláh, everything that is possible to our understanding here on Earth is made known to us. Or, that is to say, the potential for our learning it has thereby been created. Thus We have been invited through this gift to pursue as far as we can an appreciation of those subtle mysteries which have been enshrined by Him in the realms of divine creation.

Yet this is only my own, too simplified, preliminary glimpse into the deeper meanings which perhaps may lie within the Greatest Name of God. I hope your own attempts to bridge the gap of language separating us from the homeland of our Beloved are far more fruitful than mine have been.

Yes! This is the day of Bahá’u’lláh, the age of the Blessed Perfection, the cycle of the Greatest Name. If you do not smile now, for what time will you await and what greater happiness could you expect? This is the springtime of manifestation. The vernal shower has descended from the cloud of divine mercy; the life-giving breeze of the Holy Spirit is wafting the perfume of blossoms. From field and meadow rises a fragrant breath of thanksgiving like pure incense ascending to the throne of God. The world has become a new world; souls are quickened, spirits renewed, refreshed. Truly it is a time for happiness.166

If people were educated, they would become pure reflections of the attributes of God: loving, kind, happy, content, eager, etc. Basically, what we would all love to be.

If people were like this, they would not war with each other, be greedy, hate others, etc. They would learn to see reality as it is, and not how they imagine it to be.

But there is only one proper form of education, and that is the one given by God. Whatever humans make up for themselves is fraught with the very things such an education tries to remove: egotism, greed, prejudice, etc.

But God can’t just deliver the answer directly to a person’s doorstep. Some knowledge is too powerful for us to handle. Instead of teaching us peace, it might bring about even more war and hatred.

For example, some people have such a perverted view of strength, that by not fighting back, they see you as weak. Showing them compassion only inflames their hatred. With such people, a stronger approach is necessary, because that’s the language they understand.

Likewise, humanity at various times has very different perceptions of the world. There were different “languages of the spirit” that man was able to comprehend. If true strength looks too much like weakness, how will the person ever learn what strength is? So something sterner is needed, to clear away their preconceptions, and prepare them to learn more.

As time marches on, we absorb more of these lessons. Culture advances – more or less – until the law of the jungle is no longer the universal reality of life.

At such a point, mankind is ready for more subtlety. We can appreciate more. What seemed like weakness and useless knowledge before, can now be seen as strength, and learned as such.

One thing that mankind is now ready for now is the elimination of everything that separates people. With the exception of covenant breaking in the Faith, Bahá’ís are free to read any literature, consort with any people, think any thoughts, and ask any questions. Any social program which does not violate the laws of the Faith is allowed, as well as any system of education. And those laws are not numerous, compared to Islam and Judaism, for example.

In the past, there were laws against inter-faith relationships. You could not marry a woman who had been divorced. You could not peruse forbidden texts, listen to music, etc. You even had to fight holy wars if the church called for it.

Basically, all of the institutionalized forms of separation have been removed, because God believes that humanity is now able to learn how to get together – without such knowledge resulting in our immediate destruction. It means we’ve grown up enough to learn how to play together as adults. No more supervision is necessary, in the form of priests, and no artificial barriers are necessary, such as those between race, gender or caste.

Thus, the Bahá’í Faith represents the next stage in the progress of humankind’s spiritual education. Yet we are far from the end of it. Many tablets revealed to Bahá’u’lláh He decided to cast into the river because we were “not ready yet”. Even some of the tablets He did write – such as those proclaiming the equality of the genders - caused some people at the time to slit their throats with their own hands.

Since we were ready, the violence did not go much further than that. However, had God revealed such knowledge a millennia ago, it might have resulted in a blood bath, or crippled society. I don’t know this, but there are reasons why men have only learned about this now. I think we might have been far too threatened by such a weakening of our power, and who knows what that might have caused. This is only my own speculation, however.

Anyway, the ground that was broken by earlier Faiths was not entirely clear. Take for example: gender equality, racial equality, and evil. Islam thought once that women did not have souls; Jesus specifically excluded the Gentiles from receiving His miracles; and almost all religions focused very much on the reality of an “Evil One”, or at least viewed evil as an active, subverting force. Buddhism is the only Faith that comes to my mind which does not focus on this.

The Bahá’í Faith claims a unique position in religious history, in that the foundation of its teaching will not be revoked by future Messengers from God. What we have may be limited in scope, owing to our current capacity, but it is very explicit in its accuracy. This is not to say that other religions were deceptive. Jesus did not m