I am a secret to myself. To make this discovery I must look within until I see only emptiness. At that point the emptiness is light and light remains a mystery to the ego. The ego is pure darkness, clutching love to itself, never knowing what a useless task that is.
I am uncluttering my house, using the question “Does this or that object give me joy?” And if it doesn’t, I am free to get rid of it. I must not take this too literally, however, for joy is a word like love. It is at last a secret.
Some things we are born into this world to lose. And losing creates holy space. As Wordsworth said, “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.” And this was long before computers forced us to communicate via pixels if we are ever to get anything done.
The secret of myself is secure. I lie intact in the mystery of creation, a seed with the potential to see. And to see is to love. And to love is to die. The secret cannot be told, only recognized as one.
When things are bared to the light of day, they shrivel and die. But when bared to consciousness, they grow in the darkness of surrender to what is holy. It feels like a sacrifice, to let go of expecting things to go your way. And yet we never learn.
I am a secret to myself. How and why I love or hate is beyond my rational mind’s comprehension. At long last, we lay down the mind and seek satisfaction in the secret. And that is when we truly begin to live.
I do not want to be know. I want to love fully with no insurance of success. And how to do that is also a secret. A woman wrote a book called “The Secret.” I could not feel any vibration of love coming from it. But then I am blind and dumb. It has always been that way. From birth to death, love wraps us in the mystery.