Rev. Monica McDowell - Healer, Mystic, Author
A Spirituality of BEing
Sometimes I wonder ~
after Rumi, why write?
What is there left to say after a master has spoken
and everything essential has already been said~
recorded for generations millennia ago?
For that matter, what is there left to sculpt~
after beholding the perfection of a single daffodil?
Or to paint ~ after witnessing a thunderstorm and the unfolding skies have erupted in
an array of pinks, purples, and reds so vibrant they rival even the glory of a
peacock’s green and blue plumes?
Really, who can compete with that?
And what remains to be sung in a day~
after the morning arias of the warbling winged
(their melodies far surpassing any diva’s)
have finished until the morrow?
When a person has awoken to BEAUTY,
is there ever a return to sanity?
When someone has burst open with LOVE,
what is not consumed by that unquenchable flame?
When one goes beyond all Light to merge with the Deep
~that dark sea dissolving all ideas and identities of Self
~that formless Soup of non-being, less than nothing and more than everything
~that pregnant Void ceaselessly extinguishing and birthing all form~
Mind you, where then does one go next?
What is left to dream that has not already been dreamt?
And what of desire when one knows the secret of eternal contentment?
What is left to do? to create? to say? to write? to sing?
when the Artist Nonpareil has already upstaged everyone for all time?
Tell me, what is left?
All I ever hear in reply is:
YOU are the art ~ a living masterpiece
forged in an alchemist’s fire where creator and created forever emerge as One
YOU are the magic ~ transmuting the mundane into healing elixirs of immortality
YOU are the dancer and the dance in an infinite flow of Awareness.
All I ever hear is:
You are.
Just BE.
It is enough.
Copyright © 2010 by Monica McDowell, MDiv.
after Rumi, why write?
What is there left to say after a master has spoken
and everything essential has already been said~
recorded for generations millennia ago?
For that matter, what is there left to sculpt~
after beholding the perfection of a single daffodil?
Or to paint ~ after witnessing a thunderstorm and the unfolding skies have erupted in
an array of pinks, purples, and reds so vibrant they rival even the glory of a
peacock’s green and blue plumes?
Really, who can compete with that?
And what remains to be sung in a day~
after the morning arias of the warbling winged
(their melodies far surpassing any diva’s)
have finished until the morrow?
When a person has awoken to BEAUTY,
is there ever a return to sanity?
When someone has burst open with LOVE,
what is not consumed by that unquenchable flame?
When one goes beyond all Light to merge with the Deep
~that dark sea dissolving all ideas and identities of Self
~that formless Soup of non-being, less than nothing and more than everything
~that pregnant Void ceaselessly extinguishing and birthing all form~
Mind you, where then does one go next?
What is left to dream that has not already been dreamt?
And what of desire when one knows the secret of eternal contentment?
What is left to do? to create? to say? to write? to sing?
when the Artist Nonpareil has already upstaged everyone for all time?
Tell me, what is left?
All I ever hear in reply is:
YOU are the art ~ a living masterpiece
forged in an alchemist’s fire where creator and created forever emerge as One
YOU are the magic ~ transmuting the mundane into healing elixirs of immortality
YOU are the dancer and the dance in an infinite flow of Awareness.
All I ever hear is:
You are.
Just BE.
It is enough.
Copyright © 2010 by Monica McDowell, MDiv.
