It is not that I write for her, but that she reads what I write. The distinction matters. Behind the face we wear, and the name that gilds us, Creation hums. One makes contact with it and then struggles with the apparent - the seeming - consequence.
I do want to be in relationship, but how? The old ways beckon but some new mode is required. One moves beyond the rugged cross, naps beneath the Bo tree, and then keeps going. It's simple but we insist on learning it slowly.
Longing sustains nothing but the old illusions. Desire is a bright thread in an otherwise bland fabric. I value honesty but question the mode in which one seeks its realization. Don't hold me but . . . you know.
Do you know? And if so, how would you tell me? It is like we asked for a cottage, were given a mansion, and then learned that we didn't really want a shelter in the first place. He asked to be reached - to be found and held - but outside time, outside bodies.
A simple yes alters the false structure and brings it toppling down. Perhaps I am asking now to be led? Jesus smiles happily near the garage! All the highways we dream must one day dissolve, much like the salt I am begging God to serve, in the sea where we will know each other all again.