What is this thing called life,
mundane delights,
or some holy universal purpose?
Lives bound by days and seasons.
And so ...
prayers are uttered in awe, the anger long faded to
“True and doesn’t matter.”
The whisperings of days and nights
all saying the same thing,
“He’s here!”
The din,
as the vortices interface,
becoming a Divine Orchestra
playing a symphony of perfection.
Its theme,
love melting into One.
Mystics and monks,
women saints,
dedications to purpose.
Hymns incessantly chanting,
“The joy of serving is all there is.”
Touched by the Hand,
shocked into being,
alone with Him,
among the crowds,
in silence,
The mission:
Teaching others to see.
Forever holding mirrors,
reflecting souls’ inner faces.
Standing ready,
listening for the next order.
A heart open to eternal logic that says,
“True, not true; mine, not mine.”
One of the many witnesses
who bathe in a radiance of simple light.
All remembering an ancient prayer,
“As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be!”
I’m forever caught on
the Golden Staircase
in the eternal ecstasy of sharing One.

From Pieces of the Journey: A Collection, Don Davison

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