Pilgrimage
We
are all wayfarers here and the best part
is
that our intimates, friends and acquaintances
are
in truth our fellow pilgrims
whose
paths we have stumbled upon
and
are briefly sharing – each of us
moving
in the same direction,
toward
the same destination,
slaves
of the One Master,
the
Maker who fashioned us and our world;
each
pilgrim inwardly guided and directed;
answerable
only to the One Who
knows
us intimately and loves us completely.
O
child of God, it’s a long and wondrous journey
through the hills and
vales of your own heart.
Locked
up
I
want to get thin enough
to
slip through the bars of my cell.
But
I don’t know what good
escape
would do me. I am unable
to
view the surrounding terrain
from
my lone high window up on the wall.
The
main thing is, whether here or there,
I
would still be securely locked up
in
the embrace of my Beloved.
The
cell is bare but the prisoner
is
an old ascetic and is well content to be so.
I
speak of some sort of escape
but
where in the world would I go?
I
long for an experience
much
more substantial
than
this careworn world can give.
O
child of God, not just the world is careworn. It’s also
the jaded views of
your most persistent impressions.
The
prison of the apparent
I
imagine myself as one of those early astronauts
leaping
about in black and white film on the gray
surface
of the moon and radioing back to earth
(floating
visibly above me in the backdrop)
that
the moon is frigid, barren and bleak,
without
air to breathe; hostile to human life.
And
through this image I see that the universe is my prison,
the
mind and body are my shackles
and
my escape is imperative. O Meher!
Your
silence speaks to our hearts
because
our mind, eyes and ears
have
failed us, words have failed us,
images
and concepts have failed us
in
our perception of the Truth –
the
Truth of Love, of Oneness; of our
own
divinity; the Truth of You.
O
child, for illusory ages God has been waiting
for humanity to
escape the prison of the apparent.
Water
from a nearby well
A
rambling of words in my notebook
to
which I will weed out the excess
and
spruce up what is left.
That’s
the given task
whispered
in my ear
of
which I have little worry or doubt,
as
if I were being sent out with a bucket
to
fetch water from a nearby well.
No
urgency, no fear;
one
day following the next,
content
in the small comforts afforded me.
I
am yet the master of my tasks,
a
deeply appreciated blessing
surrendered
humbly to my Lord
until
and beyond the moment
when
it shall be taken from me.
O
child of God, when your chores are finished,
it means your duty has
been fulfilled.
.jpg)
