O, how this spring of love resemblethShakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I, scene 3, line 84.
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!
Before Creation, Eros was,
primal Being of Eternal Love,
before the dark and the light,
before there was fight or flight
Love was all there ever was:
always loyal, never gone astray
never rejecting ever accepting,
Eros was free, abundant, whole.
But Eros was, although blissful,
And although this great Being.
was by itself, it finally thought:
I am now two: myself and my thoughts;
my thinking of Love and Love itself.
How much more beautiful it would be
if I could create a master puzzle of Me,
where a trillion thoughts fall as rain
together mixing glimpses of earth,
slivers of sky, nighttime, daytime,
creatures living what they’re thinking,
whether the body is gone or still alive.
the Great Cosmos will it be so named
and all the creatures will adore it
as they live held in thoughts of Mine.
But in order for them to remember
how to live inside my Love’s splendor,
I will give them each two separate hearts:
an invisible heart who sings only in Love
and a visible one, the rhythm of their life.
All will be gifted bright eyes three or more
that they might see Me in every corner,
in every face, in every eye, in every song,
they will be reminded of who they are,
their Love, a tiny light as if before the eye,
that will see them through the darker times,
lest they forget that they are born of Me,
of the Love that only the hidden eye can see.
And so this is how we play my cosmic game,
you begin to seek for whom you’re named,
shedding this name crooked, that name false,
abandoning ideas that you once called your faults
until you finally see that you are not created,
that you are neither lower earth nor upper sky,
neither sun nor moon, nor falling star’s lullaby:
that you are not a creature who’s designed to die
but that you are simply only Me and my thoughts.
and so that is the game, the play that is this life,
the theater of Shakespeare was exactly right,
if you run amok in thoughts despairing or of pain
you will repeat that dark fantasy again and again
until you finally see, in joy, relief, and humility,
that those clouds were to challenge Love’s eternity
and all your life here is Love’s playful dream,
your death, an illusion, a Joker in your final scene.