The Proxy

Call me the proxy
I’m a fiddle with strings

Contemplation is the luthier that makes me to sing

Of all the thoughts, impressions, and trifling things
spinning round my head
in constant concentric rings…

There’s not a one may boast on any account
Mighty God alone is the prodigal fount

God’s Basin is like an imperceptible abyss
When I receive naught from that ocean, I know something’s amiss

And the moment I attribute His Grace to myself
it is then I abuse my spiritual health

Enter Grace

Peace feels mysterious
Like a half-recollected dream
or the memory of a childhood friend

It seems natural, and fitting
yet unfamiliar, and strange
like a half-recollected dream
or the memory of a childhood friend

It feels otherworldly
impenetrable
apart from the cares of the mind
yet at one with creation…

Natural
like a stream that finds its way over land

Easily it might be lost
but it is never far

Wherever you may go
it is to this side, and that

Illumination by Grace

Humility is of the Spirit, but pride is of the ego. The first is permanent and true, the other, impermanent and ultimately unreal. An egoistic intellect sees not (nor cares to look) beyond its own contrivance, and supposes that it must construct truth out of its “competence” and “ingenuity”. Being harbored, this vanity will cause great distress within the mind; for the ego must continually validate the supposition that its intellect functions, in itself, as a devise of enlightenment. However, once the intellect realizes that truth arises not out of its own machinations, a great burden is lifted.

Enlightened by grace, the intellect finally perceives that truth must transcend its own ability to reason and contrive. Truth, then, is something of the kind that one must bring himself into alignment with that it may be apprehended through natural intuition. To a mind of genuine humility (and fierce discernment), truth illumines the perception with relative ease; for the humble mind seeks to destroy its personal biases via the process of enlightenment. If, through sapient practice (meditation, prayer, study, dialectic, etc.), truth can be recognized in the subtleties of life, good. However, if truth eludes natural intuition, one must be patient and bring himself back into alignment. Otherwise, the intellect will go about the frantic task of trying to construct a hypothesis in which it might rest its uncertainty. If, for example, the ego expects that it ought to comprehend a complex bit of philosophy (yet genuine comprehension is not forthcoming), it will attempt to force its understanding out of insecurity. This impulse must be resisted. No such contrivance is ever reliable, being groped for and conceived as a result of ignorance. On the contrary, we must seek patiently for the truth, resisting the impulse to fill the void of our ignorance with rubbish.

Though out of pride (and fear), the ego uses the intellect to erect arbitrary knowledge within itself, humility of Spirit is content to wait patiently for genuine intuition. Having been cultivated within the consciousness by Spirit itself, humility recognizes from whence truth arises. All modes of consciousness that are able to bear with humility are those portions of mind that have been absorbed (wholly or partially) by Spirit. It is within these modes of consciousness that the intellect should rest; though more often than not, the immature mind will rest in the egoistic modes. Coming to the point where one is able to recognize whether a thought is characterized by by egoism or Spirit seems to be a tremendous milestone in spiritual development. This ability of the “knower” (Spirit) to cultivate its own consciousness is the means by which all conditioned fear is removed, and not fear only, but any inordinate mode of consciousness. As one grows in this way, the more he puts himself to death by merging mind into Spirit. By virtue of self-death, truth becomes immanent to the mind of he who is mature in humility. His intuition comes by divine nature.

The Invitation

A thicket sprouts
with bramble sharp
encroaching fast around the heart

It strangles there
my every joy
and weak I am to halt its ploy

There is no front
but calm within
to hack its thorns and rout the din

So

when striving ebbs
by Eloi’s grace
the mind grows dim and slows its pace

All murmurs gone
like unto smoke
his comfort stirs and dons the yoke

A burden light
is shouldered then
Some gentle load brings rest within

Come unto me
spake once the Lord
The deeps of pain, I’ll see you ford