I open my arms to accept, to receive, to welcome this impossibly gentle touch, this impossibly gentle weight.
I open my arms and my heart opens almost as if by mistake. It lifts something of me. It pulls me into its immense reality that seems to erase every other thought, every other doing. It moves in strange ways. My body begins to merge with the quietude; with the solitude; with the loneliness of this long, long night.
I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this. I don’t know how many times I have dissolved myself––merged into it. I no longer know the difference between the ocean blue and the starry sky. I no longer know the difference between the shadows behind and the mind that swerves and moves with the rhythm of the sound of the ocean.
At this moment of realization I find myself before an ocean of light and movement. I find myself at the shores at the edge of creation where dark and light are indistinct, where the depth of the ocean and the height of the heavens are one, where the suffering of my eternal existence and the joy of the presence of the beloved have become one, where death and life are movements of the same dance, where the external ocean and the inner ocean of light dissolve their boundaries.
I no longer fight her presence; for there is no one to fight, nothing to change, no distinctions, no boundaries, no real, no illusion, no me, no end––only the silent consciousness in the ecstasy of love eternal, radiant and beautiful.
The ego of a man blinds him to the all encompassing power of the woman. He thinks he’s powerful, but never stops to wonder what sustains and generates the power. Like a fist who thinks it’s strong, when in truth all its force comes from the mind and body that directs it.
To all the women who are posting “me too”:
I stand with you.
I wanted to say, “me too.”
But it is not the same.
Yes, I too have been a target.
As a child, I could have said “me too.”
Instead, I wanted to be strong.
Pretend it never happened.
Explain it didn’t affect me.
Insist I was strong.
Still, I won’t say “me too.”
As a child I could have.
But I never had to live with it.
My life was not inundated with it,
day after day.
The emotional overwhelm of a couple of years
has been the every breath of so many
of my sisters, my mothers, my friends, my daughters, my lovers.
I felt I’d drown once.
As impotent as I felt then,
it can’t compare.
You battle each moment,
not only to overcome.
I can’t say, “me too.”
I can say, “I stand with you.”
I will fight at your side,
against this toxin that pretends
this is normal and expected.
With you, I say no more
to this false masculinity,
out there in the world
and in here, in this old mind.
I stand with you.
I will fight at your side.
It is perhaps an error to think you are outside, that you surround me and dress up with life; for you are also inside, and disrobe yourself of me.
It is from your extensive and profound silence that all those things palpable and witnessed emerge, and that is also how from your profound darkness within me that I come forth.
You, dressed with life; and I, dressed with being.
Yet, the pregnant void whence you and I came is as external as it is internal, as foreign as it is intimate, and as you as it is me.