We experience a reality which so far appears unlimited both in its depth and range. It would seem that human happiness consists of exploring and appreciating this vast field of possibility. It contains everything known to us, and everything unknown. All the great hopes, the unrealized dreams, are there. We stand before it as a baby bird just from the nest, testing its wings.

Nothing obscures our vision of this reality more than ideas. Ideas can become a substitute, a way of remaining inside the nest while giving a show of knowing what’s outside. They provide an illusion of greatness, expansiveness, and a wilderness for our mind to conquer. They are a virtual reality, constructed by a being who must dwell in actual reality.

As a virtual reality, ideas relax the need for effort, and the tension of unpredictability. More than anything else they offer a promise of security and an ability to know – through general principles – the character of whatever experiences we encounter. Ideas turn the Unknown into a speculative known, thereby reducing surprises. They seem to change chaos into order, though it is an order confined within the limits of our own comprehension.

Whether reality is as ordered as our ideas we can never know, without a mind to encompass the whole of it. Comprehension is not what bears us thence, but wonder; reality is not a place of informed decisions, but of playing by heart. Love is the prime mover there, and the mind following as an awed spectator.

The desire for security keeps us in the nest, our ideas isolating us from the boundless possibility of the Unknown. Mainly we do this to lessen fear, but in fact it worsens it. Since ideas cannot map the reality, the discrepancy between the two forces us constantly to seek more certain structures of thought. If instead we allowed the winds of uncertainty to carry us, we might do better than all of our projected futures. The function of plans in this sense is to give us answers to questions we might face, rather than painting a picture of a desired future.

What has been traditionally called awakening is, I believe, little more than discovering that ideas cannot fathom reality. Thinking is highly adept at solving problems of theory, and is immensely useful in those aspects of life, but it can no more act as an interface for reality than logic could be expected to address qualitative problems. Thinking, like reading or writing a book, is basically unrelated to the experiences it describes. Once this is grasped at a level of primary awareness, things are no longer seen in terms of thought, but d thought in terms of things. Thought appears comical by contrast, like a distorted, colorless caricature, held up to the living, vibrant, ever-changing reality. No wonder the experience of seeing this often provokes laughter – somewhat like realizing that life so far has been lived within an empty coffee, bobbing along across the ocean. nothing that ideas can grasp truly relate, expect in specific, superficial aspects. Ideas are more like a kind of math: theories which make sense and seem sane in relation to each other, but that bear only a distant relationship to what they aim to describe. Yet for all of that they have a definite value, and work well enough to improve life, so long as they are not misunderstood as representing what they describe.

Awakening, then, is by no means the end, but only a first beginning to exploring life. It is like opening the eyes after waking, and realizing the difference between the world of dreams and waking life. With a clear sight, we can now move out and see what there is to be seen. We have still to address the question of goals and choices, but at least now the matter concerns what is real.

What is real seems also to answer what it is our nature longs for. The fuller our experience of it – undimmed by the cloud of ideas and fears – the greater our satisfaction in the moment of perception. Ideas alone have long been known as lifeless; they promise sure rewards, not in the present, but always in a distant future, often a future that is unachievable while still living! Reality, however, offers its riches in “real time”. If it were not so, how could joy be found in the fact of being alive? Merely to anxiously strive for some foothold on an impossible ideal, so that the life after death might be made more enjoyable?

To escape ideas is to abandon them as a means of experiencing reality. They run very deep, and have become our instinctive response to phenomena. First and foremost, we must be willing not to know. Not to know the names of colors, of objects, or the shape of possible futures. We must allow death and pain and sorrow to be equally as possible as their opposite; even not to know where one begins and the other ends. Life must simply be what it is, without reduction.

I’ve often heard Adolf Hitler used as an example of human evil. With quite a bit of merit. And there is often the hypothetical question of would you, given the chance, go back in time to end his life before it started?

Recently an idea occurred to me which has caused my finger to pause on that retrospective trigger. Icon of evil though Hitler may be, perhaps the history books have not told us the full story. A little bit of speculative interpretation is what I’d like to offer here.

Until the mid-1900’s, humanity was captivated by the beauty of power, and held in awe by the force of destruction. Even today there are still many people fascinated by machines of war. However, it was not until Hitler that we saw the raw, horrific ugliness of power, on a scale and in a setting where none could deny its nature. The terrible crimes Hitler committed have been arraigned on a world stage, and held in contempt by the vast majority of its peoples. This shocking example of power’s misuse may have been what stayed the hands of the super-powers during the Cuban missile crisis. No one wants to be seen again as a destroyer of civilization, or to be added to history’s list of monsters.

Since World War II we have condemned the Nazis, yet the Jews have been left to wonder at God’s silence. What if the horror of that spectacle was what humanity needed in order to prevent its future destruction? The death of those six million may have purchased the lives of today’s billions. If this is possible, then the Jewish race made a profound sacrifice for the sake of all of us, and not a meaningless slaughter; and Hitler is perhaps the least characteristic savior we have ever had.

It is a classic example of adolescence that until one makes a terrible mistake he will not properly respect the nature of power. I wonder if humanity in the early twentieth century was not on a runaway path to oblivion, its morals far out-paced by its technology. No one really knew what it meant for a ruler to have the capacity to casually butcher people by the millions. No weapons existed previously that could inflict the kind of harm seen in the mere moments of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What if the Cold War had not been so cold, but fired by dreams of avarice and conquest? Would we have been sufficiently terrified at our potential for evil, to outlast the threat of doom as we did?

I think Hitler may have been a lesson in self-knowledge that we desperately needed to survive the coming times: a knowledge which was paid for by the blood of the innocent. Perhaps he made us ill enough at our nature that in the hearts of generals and politicians there was planted a desire for things never to reach such a point again.

Should I be thanking the past that a present exists in which to think these thoughts?

I have been reading, on blogs and bulletin boards, about killing Mara, committing one’s self to rigorous discipline, changing our lives, etc. – but rarely in reference to the Goal. The glory of the means is so much praised, I often don’t hear about the cherished end.

A controlled life, where all evil is exterminated, where Mara is gone, where nothing untoward ever happens again: it sounds like a fight against evil, more than a lust for good. At the end, do people really want such an antiseptic existence? A place of all white, with singing angels and always perfect food; a place without hunger, where I would never again feel the bliss of breaking fast?

I fight for the path of love, but seem unable to describe it. It boils down to this: I want life to be as it is. I want the heartache, the pain, the hardship. I want my Tourette’s Syndrome, which makes my body a pain to carry around. I want discomfort, and hunger, and worrying about my bank account. Because all of these things give me access to what living is really about: appreciation, love, a breath-taking admiration at the end of a very long climb.

And so, even as I work to combat evil and falsehood – which I am the victim of from time to time – I thank evil for the chance it gives me to champion good. How could I ever show good my willingness to arise in its Cause, if it were not for evil?

I am finding, gradually, that I love the lot of it, the whole system. It seems so perfectly constructed: so rich, and dirty, and gritty – and real. It makes even simple things, like sincerity, seem beautiful. At least I have a friend in this regard in Herman Hesse, in his wonderful little book Siddhartha:

During deep meditation it is possible to dispel time, to see simultaneously all the past, present and future, and then everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, it seems to me that everything that exists is good – death as well as life, sin as well as holiness, wisdom as well as folly. Everything is necessary, everything needs only my agreement, my assent, my loving understanding; then all is well with me and nothing can harm me. I learned through my body and soul that it was necessary for me to sin, that I needed lust, that I had to strive for property and experience nausea and the depths of despair in order to learn not to resist them, in order to learn to love the world, and no longer compare it with some kind of desired imaginary world, some imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it.

Listening to someone talk about “being in the present” the other day, I found myself thinking that this idea is very strange. We are always in the present; there is nowhere else to be. The idea of “being in the present” has no meaning, because living can’t be otherwise.

So what do people mean by saying it? It seems to be telling us not to do certain things: Don’t think, feel; don’t imagine, watch; don’t wander, attend. And yet, the mental is as much a part of life as the physical and emotional. Understanding context is often what allows the eyes to see, and the heart to feel.

Time is like reading a book. The eyes can only be on one page at a time. Whatever page we’re on is the present. As we read, we turn the pages, creating by that movement a past and future: what we’ve already read, and what we have yet to read. Past and future are always part of the present; the present could not be what it is without them.

We read pages in order to read books. A single page has little meaning by itself. Its meaning is a composite of what came before it, and what will follow. As we move through the book, we create a consciousness of the story within ourselves, which is the act of reading. “Being in the present” would be like telling someone to focus on the current page, whereas really attention is due to the story.

The ability to connect to a book’s overall meaning through its pages is a capacity of the intellect. The pages together point toward an unseen reality – the story – which the mind allows us to comprehend. Paying attention to life, then, requires a full use of the mind as well as the senses. No part can be rejected, if we hope to appreciate the whole.

What if life is a book, and time the turning of its pages? What if existence is God’s auto-biography? Then by looking to the connections between things, perhaps we can read its deeper meaning.

What if I had never been born? What if I had never known what love felt like? To my Creator, I can only offers thanks from the bottom of my heart. How much sorrow there has been, year after year. But now I know, from that pain, what beauty it is for love to exist. He made my heart into a sensitive organ, until now I can see in the moment of an “I love you”, a deeper reality that leaves me stunned in awe. If only I could give up my soul for everyone to know what I refer to, I would still not be short-changed, because for those moments I did know it. That alone is my real life. I am beyond death now, of a sort, because I live in knowing that love is there to be found.

My thanks to the girls and the friends who pushed me over the edge, and taught me that on the other side of madness lies something divine. To every woman I have ever ached for: You brought me face to face with a God I could understand. You were all my teachers. Even if in my heart I have learned of other ways, still you introduced me to love.

Now I can summarize my philosophy of life: Whenever you love, you are God – just as a mirror becomes the sun when it gazes at the sky. The seeing and the being are one. You cannot see without love, but when you do, you become what you see in that vision of things. This is reunion, in its dynamic form. If you regard others as a parent sees his best loved child, you will taste of Fatherhood in that moment.

The sands of the desert are calm and quiet.  
A snake makes himself into a pen  
and draws the longest letter I have ever seen.

The lizards push against the rocks  
up and down, up and down --  
inmates of Hell's own fitness spa.

The gila monster is still where I last saw him.  
And above it all, the cactus, centuries old --  
  Old Man of the Desert --  
yet an infant of the sands and rock.

And me, with my pen.  
What can I say?  
I am always thirsty.

In the mystic literature I have encountered a theme which I think of as “spiritual poverty”. It means the human soul cannot possess attributes: it is a mirror, and as a mirror, never shines with its own light. What it can do, according to its purity, is reflect unchanged the light of the Sun.

In this way, the human soul can manifest every one of the divine perfections, though it cannot itself acquire them. One cannot be virtuous, but rather manifests virtue insofar as he turns toward the Creator. All the divine qualities we manifest are derived from this orientation. And it is not by the turning that this happens, but what we experience after having turned.

Seeking to be patient, for example, is nearly impossible, since everyone has their limits. If a person falls in love, however, and a request is made by the beloved, the lover’s patience is automatic. He is capable of feats of patience unimaginable to an ordinary man: he can wait for days, simply to hear a single word.

This is true of nearly everything we call a virtue. Attempted alone – without love – it is impossible to acquire. Yet it is easily achieved through the presence or wish of one’s true love. It can even be said that virtue under pressure is a sure sign of love, because only by such love can a man transcend his limits.

This virtue revealed by the lover, however, is not experienced by him as such. In the case of patience: although a lover can sit on a train platform for countless hours waiting for his love, yet in the lover’s heart there is only impatience. He is not “waiting”, in the sense of patience, so much as yearning to the point that he cannot tolerate to be anywhere else. He has no patience for anything, and will choose whatever action brings his beloved closer. If that means waiting in one place, he will wait there indefinitely.

The same with humility: in the presence of the Beloved’s greatness, one is naturally humbled, yet the actual experience is one of awe and wonder. It is not humility in terms of viewing one’s self as small, but the seen Object as great. Or with service: for the sake of love, even the most abasing task is felt as a gift, both given and received. Or with forgiveness, which in the lover’s heart is actually profound understanding. Or with sacrifice, which he feels as exalting. In every case, the real power of virtue is found in love of the right Object – a complete, self-obliterating love. And while seen by others for the virtue that it is, it may very well be felt oppositely in the lover’s heart.

The lover’s entire experience is founded in the Other. At the height of his love, he will not possess even awareness of himself, or of his behavior exhibiting any virtue at all. He will see only the beloved, and reckon himself in comparison a poor madman, for whom life is unlivable without her.

Thus I believe the key to virtue is not to acquire it – for nothing cannot be possessed by the soul – but rather a proper orientation of the heart, by discovering one’s true love. Then everything falls into place naturally, automatically. It will be a completely different experience of reality, and likely have little consciousness of its virtue. After all, one does not seek the Beloved for virtue’s sake, but for His own.

In this way, though possessed of nothing, the lover manages to manifest every perfection. This makes spirituality, instead of a process of self-development – which seems odd when one considers that annihilation of self is a virtue – a matter of turning the heart toward God and of cleansing it from all impurities, such as ignorance and blindness. There is no “development” of the self, since because the soul cannot have attributes, it cannot be changed. Eternal in its essence, it’s only question is whether it can recognize its Beloved in the works of creation and itself.

Life in this scheme is boiled down to a single, ongoing experience of the soul: the perception of God through His attributes, as manifested in the world. If being cannot possess attributes, then nothing is perceptible as an attribute unless it comes from God. If the soul’s perception is blinded, it will not see God in what it perceives, and will not experience love for it; for my understanding is that any experience of love – proven by the qualities of the lover it reveals – indicates a recognition of God. The degree of love matches the degree of recognition. This is what “God” means to me.

Although one may not name what is perceived as “God”, what is at issue is the soul’s recognition. One may not even believe in a soul; in which case I simply mean that part of a man which responds to such recognition. For example, the signs of God are what you see in a sunset that profoundly moves you; your soul is that which is profoundly moved; and love is what prompts you to stand and watch for a while.

We all experience these things, constantly, from the very first moments of consciousness. At question is the depth and degree of our recognition, and the virtues that our corresponding love reveals. As we progress in clarity of understanding, one sees God more fully and strongly in the things of the world. As this happens, our love for life correspondingly increases, until we start to manifest the signs of love, such as forgiveness and kindness to strangers.

I think the concept of spiritual poverty removes the complexity of self-development, and moves the significance of religious truth from the domain of the individual, to God. Religion is all about God, and how to recognize Him, how to turn toward Him. When this accomplished, there is only happiness for the soul, described in the texts as heaven, paradise, or “the next life”. It is a task of love, not change. Change is only necessary in order to gain the necessary clarity to see. Once seen, the Beloved’s beatific vision commands all that the lover does.

Whensoever the light of Manifestation of the King of Oneness settleth upon the throne of the heart and soul, His shining becometh visible in every limb and member. At that time the mystery of the famed tradition gleameth out of the darkness: “A servant is drawn unto Me in prayer until I answer him; and when I have answered him, I become the ear wherewith he heareth….” 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. And this is that spring whereof the near ones drink, as it is said: “A fount whereof the near unto God shall drink….”2

My beloved, I am awaiting you.  
Yesterday you said:  
"Meet me in the green gardens  
beside the great and ancient oak  
near the shores of the azure sea".

I read your letter with such delight  
and hastened to that spot.  
I heated tea in the samovar  
and spread out the blankets.  
I made everything ready for us to meet.

But where are you?  Why haven't you come?  
The morning and day are past;  
the wind is getting cold.  
I fell asleep and awoke, forgetting the time.  
Squirrels are lapping at my tea.

You promised to embrace me,  
but I feel only the fingers of the wind.  
You spoke of kisses and caresses,  
but only the sun's warmth is on my cheeks.  
Where is the love you swore was true?

I had hoped to admire your beauty  
which has filled my dreams for so long.  
But what was there to see?  
Only morning's mist, fading in the trees  
or sunlight, changing dew into rainbows...

What of the gifts you swore to bring?  
There is no gold for me here, only pain.  
My heart is empty but for your love --  
which, it must be said,  
I would not trade for any price.

So I write in consternation, my love:  
the night has come and your place is empty.  
Have I anything to do but wait?  
And yet, something in my soul tells me:  
how strange that I am awaiting you.

Looking at religion as a system of morals and teachings directed toward a goal, I find it has two general forms depending on the desired object. Firstly, and by far the most common, is “religion for the self”; the rarer form is “religion for God”. Every religion I’ve looked at, including my own, has adherents in both camps – even if they agree on doctrine. It has to do with the psychological orientation of the believer, and what he seeks from that doctrine.

Religion for the self

Religion for the self is easy to conceive and teach. It doesn’t require the introduction of new concepts, because the self is well-known to everyone.

Basically, this religion offers transformation of some kind as a reward for following it: salvation, redemption, self-perfection, freedom from self, etc. It seeks to empower or free the individual, with the idea that the result will be better than what they have.

In this scheme there are two basic stages of the individual: flawed and perfect. This division of states creates an essential conflict between who the believer is, and who he seeks to be. It implies a constant measuring, to check whether he has done “enough” to merit the reward. If salvation is instant, still he must guard against losing it. It is a system based on acquisition – an acquired change of some sort – with all the resulting complexes of attachment and fear of failure.

This measuring and fear easily lead to self-deprecation and exhaustion, since the goal is either practically unattainable, or the offered salvation is too easily lost. The self is constantly beaten into shape, prodded, and kept on the chosen path.

The degree of dissatisfaction produced by such a system is intense. This stems from its negative conception of life, looking at the self always in terms of what it isn’t. Life is viewed as a lack of attainment, or a constant temptation to fall; it is not beautiful. The highest station life can attain is death after having lived it “correctly”.

The focus here is on duty and morals, with punishment always much closer than reward. There is little joy, for even when advances are made, they also remind the believer how far he has left to go.

God in this system is the ultimate Arbiter, the final Judge. He accepts the worthy into His inner circle, while the rest are excluded. He approves of moral conduct, and condemns heedlessness. He is a God to be frightened of, since one’s eternity rests in His hands based on what he has done with his life. At least when one is alive, there is always a chance of doing better. Death closes the door on future efforts, making it a truly scary thing. If you have not made the grade by the time you die, God will mete out His justice to you.

Many people reject this kind of religion because it causes so much anxiety, with only a conditional promise of reward after death. Unless you have tremendous faith, or really believe in your ability to make the grade, why bother? It has a huge upside potential, but is a waste of life if unreal. Full of limits and conditions, its only real incentive lies beyond death.

With that said, this approach can still be valuable for some, since it is so easily grasped; and the moral alignment that results can be of great help in the long-term. Our culture has a penchant for this type of method, as can be witnessed in the proliferation of self-help books on the market, most of which offer a secular form of the same kind of self-oriented program of change.

Religion for the Beloved

This rarer form of religion is mostly unknown to the mass of people, though it does occur in various forms throughout the world. It’s rarity comes from how difficult it is to describe its aim: reunion with the Beloved. How do you talk about something a person has yet to discover? It can only be discussed using similar experiences for example. (Although one can, by their happiness, indicate that it has a source, and then maybe others will wonder about that Source).

This scheme has no “perfect” state. If you stand outside, you will be warmed by the sun. The longer you stay out, the warmer you will get. Receiving the light has nothing to do with “you”, only that you stand in the open. And the more you’re outside, the more light you will receive, which will begin to have other benefits for you.

There is no conflict here. You are never at odds with yourself. To visit a museum, you don’t have to be a perfect individual. If you study the principles and history of art, you might appreciate the paintings more than someone who hasn’t, however. Perceiving the beauty of art is entirely up to you: Do you want to look into it? Give it some time? Study it intently? Education will assist you, but the focus is always on the art, not the viewer.

Motivation to improve is thus relative to how much a person longs for the Goal. Anyone who has loved something enough will do anything to be near it. Every step that brings them closer bears its own gifts. This kind of religion is a thing of constant, ever-increasing joy. There is no need to fear the Beloved will reject you: He simply waits for those who wish to approach Him, even helping anyone who makes an effort. “Whoso maketh efforts for Us, in Our ways will We guide him.”

This process can be started from complete ignorance. You needn’t know about your eye in order to use it. What you do need is to free it from all dust and distraction, open the lid, and look in the right direction. Further understanding will let you see things from other perspectives, though some kinds of knowledge can be found intuitively.

God in this system is the Beloved, for Whom the soul has always longed, potentially or actually. The soul is a tender plant, and God, the Sun. The real issue in our case is that heliotropism must be learned and intentionally chosen.

Those who reject this kind of religion, reject the Beloved before realizing who He is. Mostly I think people reject the former kind of religion, not knowing that a baby is going out with the bath-water. For the Beloved is the Answer to all questions, the Goal of all hopes. One only needs faith that He exists to be found, and he will assuredly find Him. “He who seeketh out a thing with zeal shall find it.”

I have been paying attention recently to people’s “life ethic”, or the central philosophy which organizes their thoughts and activities. In Western society, I find one to be extremely prevalent: “Really living should feel like hard work.”

My thinking is that really living should feel absolutely wonderful. Yet I come across the above idea again and again, like a sun around which Western life revolves. Where did this idea come from, and why are people so unwilling to look elsewhere?

It seems too obvious to explain it as a Puritan ethic derived from Christianity. It occurs elsewhere in the world as well. I think Puritanism is simply a formalization of the ethic, rather than its birthplace. I think it’s been with us for a very long time.

I used to think it might just be the extravert’s credo, since an extravert would naturally prefer an ethic that removes him from self-relative experience: better to feel suffering for another, than joy in one’s self. But then found that introverts are really no different. They merely internalize the feeling of suffering as a noble punishment, rather than a noble service.

I am not denying the merits of hard work – and the need to make that disclaimer shows how pervasive the ethic is – but rather the idea that really living should feel like hard work; that one is not moving forward until they regularly experience a state of suffering.

It is possible for the body to suffer, and the spirit takes joy in this suffering. Athletes experience this, as do mathematicians seeking a proof, as does anyone who really loves what they do. Working is exertion, and exertion causes some part of us to suffer. Yet how we experience that internally varies largely based on our feeling about the activity. If we’d rather not be doing it – say, mowing the lawn a kid – it can feel like agony; but if we love it – a landscaper artist doing the same thing – it feels somehow divine.

It is the basic life ethic that seems to determine the tenor of how we experience life. It guides our choices in whatever direction fulfills the demands of the ethic. If we believe life should feel like hard work, we put ourselves into those situations: a difficult job, trying relationships, educational hardship, etc. It can be as if we’re living to make the ethic happy, and not ourselves happy.

Which makes me wonder if there should be any ethic at all. What drives us should not be an ideal, but a thing that can actually be experienced. An ideal, after all, is only an abstract never to be found in life, only approximated. Whereas the quality of something we love is known in the moment of our being near it. It’s the difference between having an ethic that says, “Life should be beautiful”, and living for an experience of beauty. In the first case one must always judging whether the expectations of “beautiful” are being met, while the latter is based on a visceral reaction that is quite immediate and obvious.

Maybe belief in an ethic is a form of desiring control over the indefinite nature of life. In that sense, I can see it as a normal part of our progression. It would only be in holding to it too dearly for too long, that we would be hindered.

My life was a fertile ground  
but bare.  
So I prayed for what was needed --  
the fruits and the flowers --  
and every prayer I made  
planted a seed.

What I could not know  
is how each plant must grow:  
some put out thorns  
before blossoms;  
some are only gnarled wood  
until the first fruit appears.

Now I look around  
at the crazy jungle of my life  
thinking each leaf,  
each thorny branch,  
is a part of something more.

There are countless mental frameworks to describe the variety of life. I think they are all false. Even theists change their idea of what faith is from time to time (or should). The point is not to find “the truth”, but to motivate ourselves. Whatever framework encourages a person to learn is the right framework at that moment. Thoughts and ideas are simply too transient and perishable. If we hold to any of them for too long, it retards progress.

So what is a life of faith? Have you ever fallen madly in love? Do you remember what the world was like before it happened, and how it was after?

If a man, for example, had lived before you and experienced this, he might say, “There is someone now living, who will steal your heart and transform the moments of your days into bliss.” He would say this because he had experienced it: the kind of transporting, ecstatic joy that is only to be found in the arms of a beloved.

To live without God – and I mean the reality, not the word – is to live without having known the Beloved: He to whom worldly love is as a shadow cast on the ground. If someone tells you that such a Beloved exists, then to seek Him you must have faith, because the way can be long, painful, and require much sacrifice. Without faith, one might give up on search as futile, or believe ultimately that no such love exists.

When I talk about this Being, I mean something that is beyond thoughts or ideas. It has no name, no description. It is not even a “being” in the sense of the word. It can only be known through experience, and even then it cannot be known. We experience it each day in the things of life, but it’s like sunlight reflected from a dull rock – or rather, reflected into dull eyes. The true sun is much brighter.

So why have religion? What we seek is profound and subtle. Look at the confusion that remains, no matter the countless books which have been written, and the many faiths on Earth. The answer is too simple. And yet, to be enmired in that complication is part of the journey, part of recognizing the futility of thought, and relegating it to its proper role.

Morality is an aid in the search; so are devotion, reverence, fasting, etc. These things can help to clear the mind, focus the heart, purify the soul. The teachings of religion are meant to be a guide, but not a goal. The goal is ineffable. Religion is the science of the Beloved, and calls mankind by words he can comprehend.

Without the Beloved, religion would just be another framework. Life can be explained in countless ways. The atheist’s way is just as compelling as the theist’s way. I’ve found that based solely on intellectual reasoning, I can be convinced of almost anything.

But the Beloved… He is the element missing from the equation. People are debating religion, when religion has no intrinsic value. They are looking past the Purpose, the Goal. You can talk about love until your face turns blue, but it means nothing. The only real thing to a lover is the one he loves. People read books on how to find love, because they want to be ready, and increase their chances. This is a laudable effort. But alone, it’s like feeding air to a hungry person. The point of a lover’s life is the one he loves. Nothing else is real.

Until one tastes of that cup, religion is an easy thing to discard. What does it offer, but restriction? After that taste, one knows intimately what the point of faith is, and the purpose of life is abundantly clear. It’s like the lover attaining to the presence of his heart’s desire, and who suddenly learns the purpose of his anatomy.

Just as the lover cannot find his love if he stays at home and never ventures out, we cannot find our Beloved if we stay wrapped up in our many veils, dwelling in the castles of theory and habit. Religion is principally the art of unlearning: of tearing down these veils, and prompting us to venture out and seek Him. Once found, there is no more asking, “Why? What for?” The why and what for would be like asking a child why he plays.

The true seeker hunteth naught but the object of his quest, and the lover hath no desire save union with 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. Labor is needed, if we are to seek Him; ardor is needed, if we are to drink of the honey of reunion with Him; and if we taste of this cup, we shall cast away the world. – Baha’u’llah

This knowledge of the Beloved transforms hearts, and thereby society. Religion gives us social laws to direct that ensuing love, and as a result great progress is attained in the time of each religion’s heyday. But then religion goes into decline, because the words lose their sense of the Beloved, and become mere words again. Man reads about love, but cannot find it, so he turns back to the world. This is when God sends another Messenger with a new religion, to rekindle the eternal flame.

Through the transformation of hearts, this world can be changed into a garden, filled with diversity and potential – not only for the few but the majority. How can people truly love one another, until they see the Beloved in each person, reflected in every face? Once life itself is the object of all hopes and wishes, it’s only natural to commit one’s time and energy to its betterment – in the same way a lover does for his love.

I think love is really the mother of all virtue. Take patience, for example. If I really love someone, I am happy to wait. My happiness and joy at doing so means I do not perceive the waiting as patience – though everyone around me might. The idea that virtue is proven by its being “hard” or by “suffering” places the emphasis on me; whereas virtue that proceeds from love, and thus leads to gladness, places all emphasis on the Beloved.

If we truly saw our Best-Beloved in all things, would not virtue be the natural expression of our innermost desires? Forgiveness, sacrifice, patience, kindliness, service – these are as breathing to a lover.

What is the power of the imagination? As I was watching the movie “Polar Express”, and feeling amazed by it all – the wonderful landscapes revealed to my eye, landscapes of fantasy and dream – I began to feel in my heart that these things must, in some way, be real. I make them real, whenever I allow my spirit to soar in those imagined realms. Watching creative films like these makes me feel as if I’m taking a journey deep into myself.

It made me wonder, yet again, what exactly constitutes the Real. If it is whatever has a consistent affect upon us, then ideas are no less real than stone. The main difference is that stone exists in the material world, thought in the human world: the kingdom of the soul.

Reflecting back, I find that as a child, I practically lived in that world: seeing gold mines instead of creek beds, communicators instead of watches, spaceships in place of bicycles. There were two complete domains, one superimposed over the other: the world of awe and wonder, and the mundane substrate that was its seed, around which the other grew.

As the years passed, I left that first world behind, its colors, its mysteries, its treasures and hopes. They were replaced by the religion of science, and the great law of determinism. No more did ancient beasts take wing when the birds flew, or jungle cougars stalk in the form of my neighborhood cat.

What was that world? Did I too quickly allow it to be named unreal? Because, although its treasures were accepted by no banker in the real world, what they did buy brought my heart much happiness and joy – which would seem a far rarer currency these days than gold.

I begin to wonder if that land was the fabled Eden, that my knowledge slowly cast me from. In exchange for the commodity of other’s words to approve my maturity, did I give up on the Kingdom of God, which Christ tells us lies “within you”?

I do not question the value of the practical world in keeping the body alive, and serving as a ground for our hopes and aspirations. But what of the sky into which those hopes yearn to fly? Perhaps that heaven lies within: where other planets dance, and fairer stars shine with their fey lights.

Watching films and reading books, I am recalled to that world. I know that trains cannot fly, but I also know that it can when my imagination gives it wings. What I see with my inward eye is often what touches my heart the most, turning it from a mere pump into an organ of love, and dreams, and a subtle, radiant power.

Perhaps we are meant to have two lives, one inner and one outer; to see with two visions, and aim at two sets of goals in life. We stand astride two kingdoms: one of the body, and one of the mind. Both have their effect upon us. Who is to say which is more real? if we judge by the power of each to change us, rather than by simply what submits to measure. What is made in the outer world can be tested by the limits of that world, but it takes a ruler of a much different kind to gauge what is possible in the other.

I think human beings have a real inner life, which is the true undiscovered country. As all the storybooks say, it’s belief that takes us there. And while the outer world may be our horse and carriage, the ultimate destination lies within.

I knew a girl  
whom it hurt to look upon.  
She was a moving form of pain:  
a pillar of fire.  
Her soft hair made me ache.  
Her walk was a dagger,  
her smile like a brand.  
Every word she spoke  
was heaven's own agony.

She was so beautiful  
it transcended delight.  
She took beauty, and turned it  
into something unbearable.  
She became, to me,  
a source of mystic knowledge:  
that a vision can be so good  
you almost wish it never was.

I learned from her  
the way of the moths,  
who long for the light  
that burns them.  
How like a flame she was.  
How divinely consuming.

I cannot even describe it.  
Instead, I speak of the pain  
and hope you will understand:  
for it was a good thing --  
so good, it became bad:  
bad for the limited me,  
good for my true self.

A beauty like that  
tears you out  
by your optic nerve,  
and rips away all complacent being.  
What is left cannot be pictured.  
I can only tell what happened  
to what was left behind.

I find that many people have a hard time “being in the present” because they think the experience should take a certain form. After all, one can only be in the present. What part of us has the ability to roam into past or future? If we remember the past, we do so in the present; if we project into the future, it is still a present activity. All activity, thought, and being, is only and ever in the present.

Understanding that, there is nothing one needs to “do” in order to live in the now. When we think there is a “right way” to be present, this causes us to continually step back and ask, “Am I doing it correctly?” And though asking that question is also done in the present, it doesn’t feel “right”, and so we take another step back, to see how to correctly ask the question. The result is major anxiety! And that anxiety is something we seek to be distracted from. Funny, isn’t it?

If one is naturally distracted, just be distracted. When that is OK, it makes the present a much friendlier place, and there is no reason to escape.

After much thought, and letters from encouraging friends, I’ve decided to continue with this website. I found it helpful for me to have it running, because it stimulated me to write.

Everything on this site is written by me, whatever others may claim. No one else’s work is presented here, without giving them full credit as the author. Also, all material is under copyright, and should not be published elsewhere without obtaining permission. Thank you!

I am a bow of strong wood  
with forceful potential.  
God has strung me  
and knocked the arrow of my soul  
pointed in His direction.  
As I learn, I pull it back,  
ever further, ever tighter.  
Now it is taut:  
to the breaking point.  
All that is left for me  
is to let go.