Love and Certainty

Love and Certainty

Love and Certainty


In a distant field, between the two mountains separated by a valley that captures life's breeze and generosity, the grass asks the sky,

"How can Love be certain when we have seen her moaning the seasons' sorrow and longing?"

The sky, a witness unto the Earth and unto itself, replies,

"Verily, if the Earth were just an impossible barren wilderness and if the sun were but a hypocrite, never would you see Love's brightness fill the horizon of existence at dawn and eventide, nor would you ever perceive tenderness in the air, when the heat gives birth to the rain which sends living currents to the humble soil...

"Love is sufficient unto Love even as she is free unto her own day and night, and unto her own birth and death. Therefore speak not of that which knows no faltering, that which distinguishes itself from others by being its own light, its own awareness, when your heart is clouded with the clamor of this world, for this is how the frail-minded prostitutes himself.

"Even as Love is the Day, the Grand Symphony that moves all things and preserves life's self-conscious content from slumber and lethargy, so is she the Night of all things, the Silent Presence that contains your high tides...

"Love and only Love is the Light in which you see Life's versed hands sowing and reaping the seed of hope and generosity, and everything else is but darkness and selfishness.

"So how can Love not be herself, even as her face and nakedness are reflected on the faces of those who understand her somewhere between their understanding and knowledge of the beauty and reality of existence?

"How can Love's knowledge not shine on her own day in understanding? And how can it not embrace her own secrets at night in intimacy?

"Verily, in every home-coming, there is a sighing and a longing, and Love has no aim other than to unfold herself in her own name."

With this answer, the grass is silenced, and therefore unfolded.

The aged hills become awake, however, as if erected on arrogance, and cry their doubt aloud,

"How can we be so sure of Love when all that we see in her is madness?"

The sky resorts to its own silence for a while and then replies with exceeding tenderness, echoed before all the moving elements,

"How can the leaves dance in the wind in the light of the day and say, "We are alive!"

"Madness is but the purest of motions, by which the sands in the vast desert are able to rise high in their seeming weightlessness, when the Inner Silence of the Universe causes the wind to caress them and intoxicate them with their own existence."

With this answer, the hills are silenced, standing eye to eye with their own hidden Reality.

Thus, all of life must but live in knowledge and certainty and at last find its rest.

Love,

{Dani}