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In our Daily conversations,
our Wanderings,
There are words that come up
and Words that Fall Down.

There is a Life Lived between Sentences,
A fragrance in the Dots, the Pronouns,
the Fresh Morning Adjectives.

We speak of Love rarely in our Lives,
As though Love is a Four-Letter word,
discouraged through Generations of History,
Frowned-Upon by the Mentors of an
Technicality-Hungry culture.

We love those who we predictably
must Love;
those bound by Family,
Friendship, Fraternity. All this love is
Parceled with the Normal Human Palette;
it makes people Cry at Movies, funerals,
weddings. It’s the love that comes and goes,
that Ebbs and Flows with the Tides of Material Life.

There is Another Love – one that we know Little Of.
This particular Love, you might say, is the dominion
of The Beloved.

“The Beloved” is mentioned in Poetry. Those like
Kabir, Rumi, Gibran; people we normally refer to as
“mystics”. They are “mystics” because they have entered
what we view as the “mysterious” – as opposed to the Mundane.

However, what is truly “mysterious” is that
we live in a world where “love” can be bought and sold.
It is Mysterious that we live in a world where Ecstasy
is a product of Animation & Special Effects on Full-Color
Cinematic canvases where Animals talk to each other and exploding
cars fall of cliffs, and people are re-born many times and live many
lives, without learning the attendant lessons.

It is Mysterious, that although we “feel” inside and “know” inside,
that we trust and obey and sanctify that which lies outside of
our selves; that we dance to the drum of cultural and familial
directives, rather than the drum that beats inside our own
hearts, our own soul, our own “center”.

So, these Mysterious Ones speak of The Beloved.

The Beloved, they imply, is known Inside You … although,
with the luxury of interpretation and extrapolation, we concur
that The Beloved is also reflected Outside Of Us – in the World
At Large. And of course, the Reflections can be Large,
Theatrical, Miraculous, Mysterious, Overwhelming & Cathartic.
And Reflections, of course, provide endless Entertainment & Distraction.

But IF … what the Mystics say is true, then these Larger-Than-Life
Reflections are only just that: reflections. And they are reflecting
something of Immeasurable Beauty, Grace and Depth. And where
might the Source of this Reflected Light be originating from?

The Drug Store? The TV?
The Minister at the Pulpit? Distant Supernovas?

Perhaps, it’s not as Mysterious as it seems. Perhaps the “Mystics”
are simply “closer to home” — closer to something of substance
that we all contain and rest upon as our Foundation. Something
which is buried deep in the Human Fabric, the Fabric of Every Human.
Something which we can Call Upon, as it calls upon us. Something
which we can Know – as certainly and irrevocably as the Rhythm of
our Own Existence continues its Gentle and Gradual Dance,
Day after Day after Day after Day.

Perhaps the Reaching for this Substance is the Inward Reach,
the Gesture few of us know. Perhaps the Inward Reach is
really the Romancing of the Beloved, the tender and gentle
one whose imprint is rooted indelibly in the deepest
sub-atomic particles of our Consciousness. The
thing that we have truly known since the beginning of time.

Perhaps The Beloved is only described in Poetry,
because it only lives in the Poetry of the Soul –
a place who’s dimension fails physical understanding;
a place whose depth can’t be measured by Sounding Devices.

But a place known by Consciousness;
A Doorknob turned by the hand that Writes
the Poem of Existence.

This Knowledge, that all human beings
Wait For, also waits for us.

Patiently.

Endlessly.