Though We Might Call It

“Perhaps everything that frightens us is,
in its deepest essence, something helpless
that wants our love.”

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

In recognizing that which we tend to construct or presume to be grounds for un-love and contraction, all is eventually or even suddenly revealed to be inherently without any limitation – the paradoxical but generous offerings of Love to itself.

In recognizing “that” from which we tend to recoil in fear and conditioned reactivity, all is revealed to be nothing but the selfless communication of Love to itself.

In recognizing the appearance of sensations, perceptions, and thought formations, all are revealed to be nothing but non-binding manifestations of our own indivisible totality, which is the boundless nature of Love itself.

In recognizing the vanishing of every formation, sensation, or thought object, the I-concept itself is revealed to be nothing but the transitory play of vast emptiness, which is simultaneously the unfathomable function of Love itself.

In recognizing the futility of belief in or identification with any form or concept, all seeming hindrances (including the presumption of a separate self-sense) are enjoyed as nothing but transparent modifications of Love itself, without any effort or motive to have them be anything other than what they are.

In recognizing that all seeking is merely the avoidance of “what is” — the breathtaking magnificence of the ordinary, the uncontrived rawness of it — Love reveals itself as the very home which the mind of preference is always fleeing in order to finally arrive home.

In recognizing the absurd predicament in which the mind of complication entangles itself through all of its efforts to confirm, enlighten, save, redeem, improve, liberate, or vanquish itself, a sense of humor is born, and it is that humble humor which heralds the beginning of true wisdom – the capacity to appreciate and incarnate Love itself.

In recognizing that consciousness itself is simply an engaging fiction, a fantasy creation of Love’s innocent dream-play, with no ultimate meaning or significance except to be That, our soul becomes still.

In such stillness, any pretense of knowing, along with the dualistic mind’s imaginative scenery, is dissolved in an infinite expanse – the sky-like spaciousness of Awareness itself.

The unparalleled beauty which shines forth from the heart of that dynamic silence is beyond any special name or poetic designation, though we might call it Love.