THE CLOSET MYSTIC

Paradise is ever at our fingertips,

Dependent only upon our observation —

She surrenders her veil for the perfect suitor —

Those who can behold

Her splendor.

The Moon does not reveal herself

Without the white light of Son —

Oh, great Mother,

I lay against your bosom,

When I recline in the grass —

You whisper sweet nothings to me,

When I hear the birds chirping merrily —

What a gift it is to walk upon you,

Great Goddess of all creation

Donning a crown of flowers,

I kneel to the queen —

Your presence is most sublime

Forever grateful am I

When I tell you I still love you,

I don’t mean that I wish we were together,

That I wish we were holding hands,

That your head was nestled against my chest.

I don’t mean that I want to get back together —

I most definitely do not mean that!

I mean to tell you that I hold ultimate goodwill for you.

I mean to tell you that,

Even though we aren’t together,

I wish you deep happiness and healing.

I mean to tell you that I hope you are taken care of,

I mean to tell you that I wish for you warmth, sweetness, and joy.

I mean to tell you that I care about your wellbeing,

And that you still hold a place in my heart —

Not that you still have my heart, mind you —

But that I hope the benevolent side of the Sun shines upon you,

That all your hopes and dreams are attained,

That the highest bliss of your heart is made manifest in your life,

And that I hold goodness towards you and for you.

Thank you for everything,

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Didn’t realize I was being poisoned

Until I was away from the intoxicant

Didn’t realize color had gone from the world

Until the black and white left

I’m me again.

I’m happy again.

I clung to you to medicate

Sorrows that you had caused.

I wrapped myself in a cold, damp blanket

Clinging to it ever more tightly for warmth

But around me was a ferociously Sunny day

That I had ignored

Laying here hoping 

you’re missing me

The way I’m missing you

I’ve no hope of coping

I’m bleeding here

Are you bleeding too?

No matter what they say

I can’t convince my heart

To feel any other way

To return to the start

Would be my one true wish

But here we are

Ash clenched in my fists

What we had was gold

But we were not Midas

Far the contrary — 

I just wish I could pick one:

To go back to when we were each other’s everything

Or to when we were nothing.  

But this transitory state carries the pain of death

After all, what is death but a transition?

Energy cannot be created or destroyed,

Merely to change form. 

I really am hurting.

It terrifies me to think you may not be hurting too,

Though I’d never wish you pain or harm

I just want to know you care.

because I do

Such is the cost of life,

Of love.

I am warm,

I have a heartbeat. 

How vulnerable it is to live

For to live is to love

And life cannot be so 

without that mystifying factor.

Love isn’t logical.

That much I know. 

I cannot bargain with my heart.

communication with it 

is a one way street.

I can only listen to it

And let it be heard

Lest I silence myself.

I do miss you,

And I will deny it no more

For I refuse to deny myself. 

I will let myself hurt

I will let myself be taken by the sorrow

For I loved. Oh, how I loved.

Why would I hide from the truth?

I’ll not.

How strong I feel in admitting 

My tenderness

Oh, how I loved,

And oh, how this hurts

And how much better do I feel already,

In my admittance, in my confession?

How can one repent and be made clean

Without first an admission of guilt?

Oh, I am guilty. How guilty I am!

Guilty of loving in the highest degree

Oh, how the current took me,

I a mere fish helpless against the sea. 

And once I stopped fighting the tide,

I found I could have fun in it…

Yes, fun, like a ride.

Isn’t the pain part of the fun?

Shattered illusions,

Was she or was she not the one?

I’ll not cheat love, and I’ll not cheat death.

I loved, I loved, I loved,

I’ll admit that with every breath.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. 

Yes, catastrophically did I collapse,

For the heights we soared to

Were more than I’d ever known.

Unparalleled. 

Thank you for the sights we saw

I regret the way we went down

But know that truly,

From the very bottom of my heart,

Do I only wish to see you soar.

Why be bitter in break up?

There’s no use in that,

Only fear, insecurity.

I wish you well, I wish you a grand life. 

Thank you for the gift of your presence.

Farewell, friend

And then I discovered that it was not you I missed,

But myself.

And then came my homecoming.

How I had longed for my own embrace,

That which I had forgotten.

It is delusional to suppose that we aren’t still churning out new mythologies just as the ancients did.

It is delusional to suppose that we aren’t still constantly chewing on the mysteries of our existence just as the ancients did, and that we aren’t still crafting stories to make sense of that which we find ourselves in — “reality.”

No, we simply stopped personifying the characters. We have developed a preference for numbers rather than letters; we have developed a preference for quantities rather than qualities.

But make no mistake: Campbell’s assertion that all mythologies and religions explain the same elementary principles with different characters and cultural contexts holds true. It’s still the very same beings clothed differently. It is all the same, and still do only the names change.

What is the string theory of modern physicists but Indra’s Net of the Hindus?

What does the Big Bang Theory do but agree with all religious peoples and all spiritualists that we all originate from One common Source?

God isn’t dead, no. He’s hiding in plain sight.

Mythology is more active than ever — it is merely less accessible to laypeople due to the wall of technical, scientific jargon that one must leap over to reach it. The saying still holds true: “at the top of the glass of natural sciences is atheism, but waiting at the bottom of the glass is God.”

One sip of liquor merely assaults the senses and scorches the tastebuds; a full glass, however, leads one to be under the influence of the spirit which they drank, intoxicating and altering the perception. Such is the wine of our natural sciences —

One sip sobers and shocks.

The full glass leads to spiritual inebriation.

The great act of spiritual sewing, in making the two one — the microcosm as the macrocosm — is in making one’s life a living myth.

Just as great religious systems and mythologies explain to us, in stories, figures that perfectly embody transcendent truths, the Great Work of our own lives is to let the below — us on Earth — perfectly reflect the Above.

This is like becoming a living art form. In this way, all things, all beings, and existence itself, becomes art — for what is art but meaning, an etheric, spiritual, and/or emotional essence, contained within a symbol? What is art but a stairway to transcendence, the physical art form itself the first step towards the nonphysical essence being embodied in that vessel?

What is the spiritual lens of living but to see that all physicality is animated by a hidden, subtle, energetic reality? What can one do but be taken by beauty and awe in the wake of that epiphany, that all physicality is a living metaphor for a reality just above it, contained within it, permeating it and filling it? That we are both of those realities, and that they are beautiful?

The realization of the Kingdom of Heaven that already surrounds us, perhaps, is not a great transfiguration, but is merely a shift in perspective — to see what is already there in front of us, hidden in plain sight. The Kingdom is contained within, a spiritual center of loving observation, for there alone is true bliss.

Perhaps, then, the Midas Touch and healing power of Spirit, and those awakened, is merely in observation — to awaken the self to the Self. To become aware of that which you already, and truly, are.

Perhaps the power of forgiveness isn’t such a Herculean task with this perspective. Perhaps forgiveness is instinctive, a reflex, already there, for one who uses this lens, for to see another living being for the truth of their higher essence is to already see them as good — effortlessly. And perhaps we all need someone like this in our lives, for to be witnessed in this way, for the truth of our being, is to be granted an opportunity to become that. It is redemption, a second chance, contained within the power of simply being observed for the truth of our hearts.

One can spend a lifetime meditating on the difference between desire and need.

The distinction between these two is the distinction between the spirit and the body — the true and the false. To walk the path of need is to walk towards lasting, deep happiness — to walk the path of desire is to walk the path towards ugliness, a lack of fulfillment, and pain.

Those consumed by desire are like those who experience food cravings because they are lacking in a critical nutrient. The body never stops hungering, because it is deficient in vitamin X, Y, or Z, so one shovels anything and everything into their mouth to satiate the feeling of emptiness; however, until one finds the real need causing the ache, no amount of cheap substitute will suffice.

We must remember this with our spirits.

How many of us use sex as a cheap substitute for a lack of real warmth or love in our lives?

How many of us use drugs to satisfy our need to transcend, leaving us paralyzed by gravity ever more when we “come down”?

How many of us use any number of vices to escape the real point, dancing around the perimeter of the issue, too scared to face its center?

My pursuit of Spirit is my pursuit of everlasting joy; to discover real need, to find the water of life that I may never thirst, and to let go of desire — but also to have compassion for that desire, not as a product of evil to be hated, but as a product of unfulfilled need, like a child never held by Mother.

I only wish to grant that boy what he never had

What greater revelry,

Than inner revelation?

Here comes my ecstasy’s,

Final exclamation:

Your love is my rebirth,

My spirit’s reclamation.

You graciously dealt

that sacred breath of life,

That made my inner flame

Spark and reignite

I’d walk love’s tightrope

Any time, any day

I know I’ll stay upright,

if on you I fix my gaze

From the windows of your soul,

I’ll never go astray

We haven’t any need,

for all of this space

Meet me in the middle,

Grow warm in my embrace

You are the sweetest fruit

That I will ever taste

With you time does move

At a contrary pace

To my beating heart

That runs

Love’s race.

I ignored the ache of my soul for far too long

Is it too late?

My heart desired freedom

Indescribable longings and callings

Never heard

Never answered

Am I wrong for learning to love my prison cell?

Should I have continued banging my head against the bars?

This Stockholm Syndrome is not my fault

Too many days

Looking at the green mountains

Through classroom windows.

Too many days

Looking at the wild ocean

From a household like solid ice.

What was my battle with derealization

But the reality of my heart not made manifest?

What was my battle with depersonalization

But the inability to express my true self?

I joined the funeral march

For this is the way.

“This is necessary,”

I learned to tell myself

As I put on my own chains

“This is necessary,”
I learned to tell myself

As I silenced my voice, lest I let myself be a hated pariah

“This is necessary,”
I learned to tell myself

As I quieted the wild longing to transcend, to transcend anything, to leave the mundane, for my spirit ached and screamed and clawed and dreamed

But “this is necessary” I’d still tell myself,

And I still tell myself to this day,

That this is all necessary

The pressure will be too much to bear one day

But that day is not today.

This is necessary.