Sunday, June 25, 2006

Meditation 1

A Meditative Interlude

Sunday morning and a sort of emptiness inside.  Needing to meditate, needing to fill the vacuum, needing spiritual not religious sustenance.  Tired of all the easy answers trotted out by all, tired of the noise of modern society, tired of the boasting of big egos and the lies of this society.  Needing comfort, needing companionship, needing intimacy; missing the companionship of Ann, missing her son Colin; feeling their rejection still I write to find some consolation.

When I meditate I enter the still world of soul, the still point of being deep within, that powerful and potent platform of awareness and observation – of being aware, of being awake.  Sometimes the tears flow as the power of compassion overwhelms my soul, when I am connected with every living and sentient being in this world.  Little speck of consciousness that I am, I am connected mystically and wonderfully with every other little speck of consciousness.   Little speck of consciousness that I am, I am moved by the suffering and pain of self and others, of others and self.

Look upon this world with great compassion, that’s what we must do.  Look with the eyes of compassion, that’s the only way.  Life is so short.  I wonder what I have achieved at all up to this point in my life.  I wonder where my path leads me.  I wonder where I will end up at all.  I feel deeply that I have a task to do other than the profession that I am following at the moment.  This I share with the subject of my STL thesis, namely John Henry Newman who, when he was sick in Sicily, believed that he would not die because the Lord of his life had a work for him to do.  I want to be open to the potential of my dreams, to be deeply enchanted with the wonder of my being, with the wonder of the being of every other sentient creature with whom I come in contact.

Let me go now and focus through meditation – focus on pulling the bedraggled and entangled threads of my being into some sort of strong chord of being, into some consistent and strong and fibrous rope of being.  These lines are my prayer; these lines are my hope; these lines are the warp and woof of my existence.  Long may I write them and long may they lead me to the truth of my being.  Amen, amen and amen again.  My soul sings and must sing or else I’m dead.

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