To know the world, the mouth must first make words. I speak, therefore I am and can know the world. Being conscious is a poetic act, a participatory co-creation of life and all that is. That it is co-creationary also makes being conscious a process of discovery. The human universe is populated by countless centers of free activity, and each for the other presents the possibility of unending surprise. Consciousness depends upon expression as much as perception, upon giving as much as taking. I get and have ideas, but so too do I make them. If the world is a picture in my mind, an ideal model, then the mind is its painter and architect. But the world is no mere picture or model: it is the real time and place of our emergence into life, the stage upon which we dance and play. The world is no more in my mind than my mind is in the world. The world is in us, and with our minds we share in its making.
Philosophy is first an encounter with oneself; the philosopher, in knowing him/herself (i.e., in uniting soul and spirit/anima and animus in and as the Self), then becomes wise, a sage; the sage, in being whole, finally becomes a savior, who loves the world and loves the others who share in its making. Philosophy, then, is not simply the love of wisdom, but the art of becoming whole, of perpetually re-making the world in harmony with others. We are the chorus of creation, and with our singing we spin the stars and stretch space beyond all bounds.
Listen to the words hidden in the wind, and learn the song sung for cosmic ages. Hear the rhyme? Commit it to heart. Now improvise.
The prophet is beside himself, and breathes into history the words that will not be heard but by those with silent hearts, whose longing for a world more real reminds them daily of the night that has befallen us. Illusions are paraded as truth, and the people cheer. But does not everyone know with ever-increasing clarity the prophet’s voice as their own?
Is the true source of our troubled time that only he has courage enough to shout in the streets, while we ignore it for fear that our petty personality will meet social disgrace? O, but what heights we might reach, but would we open our eyes to the grace of a life divine, whose gifts of light and love can free us from our deluded ways.
And what angel’s message does the prophet trumpet to startle our spirits from their slumber?
A silent Word.
And upon the still surface
Of the depths, Her tears
Who loves the world
Who is never
And forever born.
Who knows that heaven is here
Beneath the stars,
Where light warms the ground,
And reveals the shadow of Beings
The prophecy is simple in its subtley: heaven is not another world. But nor is hell. We exist in what we know; we live as freely as our fear of dying fails to hold us.
There is one who kneels me, who pulls me to the Sky beneath the Earth. Around her, my heart is heavy with the gravity of love.
Love, like a wound that needs forever to bleed in order to heal; a union of suffering and bliss that asks for no more than a brief kiss.
In that short time, the whole world unwinds in anticipation of the rise of the divine. Lips hear each other without gasping for air, and Wisdom passes purely between souls.
Quickly, the Word returns to where it was told, and all was one, all was old. For evidence of God, look the I of another in the eyes. You’ll see reflected the ancient story of the Moon, with light down shining from the Sun.
Discover the face of she who wears the life of the Earth as skin. With time, she weaves the wonders of the world into space, making matter through imaginative impress.
Remember the meaning of the future, the destined death of earth. What lives is hiding here today, but will be gone tomorrow. Know thyself, and love thy neighbor.
Cocoons look at first like coffins. But beneath the scab is a living ouroboric embryo, recreating itself from within. The Human and the Earth have been swallowed by the Sky. Now we must learn to tell the tail from the story.
Wisdom is never worried, because time always tells her when it’s up.