What is this, penetrating me over and over again?
What is it that pulls me out of myself, over and over again? What is impregnating, causing me to give birth to words and stories and thoughts? What presence is sending these words out to see if any survive, to hear some of them coming back to die in the vastness of my mind?
Thousands of children created, all living inside myself; a few of them daring to come out in words, in teachings, in thoughts and stories. What is their life like out there? I don’t know. All I know is the swelling in me that sends them out; and they go out there not knowing why I sent them. I can’t tell them that. They cannot know why. That is for me to know. That yearning is mine, and I send them out, each one with its own orbit, to live and die, to one day come back.
More and more are created in me, from the pulling of that Goddess-priestess––her silver touch pulling all the way down to my womb. And that sun God! Harsh, brilliant and penetrating, hitting my flesh, burning.
This womb of my heart is ready to swell, to live, to yearn, perhaps one day to surrender into that vast thing I call the ocean, when I can no longer see it because it’s too big, when I can no longer hear it because it’s drowning me, when I can no longer remember myself stepping into the waters.
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.
As a child, sitting at the beach of El Espino in El Salvador, I would look ahead of me and I would see a horizon where the blue water kissed the blue sky. And I would wonder about that line that divided the heaven and the ocean. It was thin—maybe not really there.
It was there just so I could see it and imagine a separation between the two. And as I tried to penetrate that almost visible barrier, I would notice that the periphery of my eyes would widen, almost as wide as the ocean. And I sat there with my small eyes, with my small mind, in this small world, almost able to hold the immensity of the ocean.
It was vast. Huge. I could not hold it in my thoughts. Any thought I begun to have about it would be washed away with that roar, with that sound, deafening all over—a busy silence. Before every thought formulated in my mind: silence. After every thought: silence. And all around the thought, that loud roaring silence of the ocean.