Those words came to me with such clarity as I watched him walk into the airport. One last mental image captured for the next three months.
I reach for a friend of mine on the drive home with that message. Her reply: “Like the edge of a piece of paper or a sword. There is no in between.”
A hot blade that slices through these insides like soft butter. Gutted and melting at the point of contact.
He showed me love’s ability to pierce through anything directly congruent with condition. Time. Space. Relationship. There is no framework that could dull this blade. There is no destruction of THE universal reality. What is born of the Atman, shall stay.
“Love is an experience of infinity” – a bag of tea told me recently. I wish not to argue with this wisdom, but I do have another perception of it now.
The idea that love is an experience OF infinity expresses the dualistic idea that they are separate. Sweet tea, they are one. A repetitious beat of the same drum called by different names. One note, to the conscious ear.
He showed me that.
If this is true, then in its purest nature, love can suffer no carnage. That which is infinite cannot be altered.
If this is true, then the proclamation of unconditional love is made up of both the alignment with the self, and the release of the ego. And that shit. will. gut. you. There is no greater exposure. No vulnerability more naked. It is fucking sharp.
And he showed me that I am freed in the bleeding from boundless tiny cuts.