It’s wondrous to consider
I might consciously be God right now
if I didn’t take so much delight in being
my vain, silly scoundrel of a self.
All the evidence is now in
indicating that to reach Paradise
I will have to leave my front porch.
Routinely, I sift through my verifications
calling it prayer, meditation, study and praise.
It’s much safer and easier than to risk the task
of true effacement. Easier to sit tight
in this familiar old rocking chair
than trekking out into that lonely, austere terrain.
Repeatedly, I lament my predicament
and yet time and again – still –
I choose myself over God.
O child, impossibly difficult, Meher Baba said,
to become what you already are.