Much of a life is spent unconscious, not
even counting the sleep that approaches
a third of the day for most people
In broad daylight you walk around, unaware,
nothing is empty of spirit; spirit is in all and
is all; all is in spirit and is spirit
Spirit impinges on all that is not itself
and sways in its direction, all on its path;
as if spirit were a circle, perfect
Envision the perfect circle containing all
geometry in a spiral growth, as though
nothing other than itself were growing
Whatever feels to be empty of spirit, and
wherever spirit appears to be absent, shows
from the deep end, its seeming alone
If that's too harsh, listen to the hush of days
to tell without flinching: The empty feeling is
of a void that's not an invalid, and not invalid
Behind, beneath, below the seeming empty
feeling, hides a most persuasive force to
reckon with; all form shows its incense
This unity of being goes by various names
yet no word or phrasing can seize the being
of being; still, you can be seized by its burning
Direct proof comes as a feeling of being alive,
so alive as to be wrapped in a holy flame, so
alive as to live with the feeling of being life, itself
The being of being comes and goes as the
nightingale, and as the nightingale you delight
in its coming your way and are glad when it moves
another
