We can only give according to the desire of what is.
When I write, it is included, and the writing moves accordingly.
I follow: I am composed by it: it is given.
The image is given as well: bluets, moose tracks, ripples on lakes, the silver hook of the crescent moon as it slips towards the west.
It is the image through which what is holy and sacred secretly shines and - when glimpsed - enables creation.
In the presence of what is holy and sacred, one knows only giving, and so gives, by creating.
It is internal and one knows it only by releasing what is external from the drama of outcome, the agony of specificity.
One has to say yes the only way they know and then give it the necessary space.
Alone or with another doesn't matter, for the loveliest of lovely people is merely a means by which to love all people without exception, which is the only sacred objective.
It is the present - not the other - which renders us new.
Who takes us there explicitly - through writing, through the shared image - goes with us, and so we are never alone.
It is not contingent on the body and it is not contingent on time.
There is no application of love on terms the world will accept: this is a law: and there is no life apart from it.
You came to me not to be the student but to be seen, beheld as the God-lit whole: beautiful and perfect.
You wanted to be healed by - to become one with - enveloped in - the gold braids and fluid nights of writing.
Beloved: no word leaves my lips but knows Her first, no sentence gathers but it gathers through and for Her.
What is given in love need neither manifest nor heal on terms set by the world for relating.
Seek only the interior altar: the gift is there.
For what is is already given: and you both have it and are it: trust only that, child: give only according to its light.
For what I am is only what you created before time began, that you might remember in time you need but blink and be whole: now.