Is longing enough?

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Is longing enough? You don’t often believe so. And maybe too unbelieving, too afraid to admit, you strive to feel something you don’t, something real again of this living water, and a love for his life.

bowl

Something that may not have happened exactly, though you do remember and it persists. Its truth seems to have expanded the bowl, beyond your rim and left you with unanswerable questions: Does he truly live in me? And does he know what he’s doing? And do I?

So you fight to return to this first love, the love you don’t exactly remember. And what happened back there and was it real love? And more than just a feeling? Or less than that, an immature hope of feeling something?

But no matter, you want to want to. Though you wonder if that is enough.

And you get yourself up to wake yourself up and wonder if anything’s changed. If all of this is all faith is, a longing for love, and wondering if it is really enough? This creating a world of all that remains, of what must exist if it didn’t, and are all of us merely wishing to escape our bowl and say it’s real this collective dream we’ve only imagined? And are we real and will we be this way eternally?

I admit: I sometimes wonder with you.

I sometimes think maybe we’re all waiting for the one soul who can bring himself to say it, the one hopeless enough to see without fear, beyond the flesh-varnished bowls:

“Behold! The kingdom of heaven is within!”

But some days he doesn’t show, and I want to say to you to just keep peering in. Persist in the illusion and forget cleaning the outside of the bowl.

You are beautiful just as you are.

Hope is blind but it’s the only thing that washes our eyes. This life is only real when you preach it to yourself loud while straining to hear his whisperings in your unstopped ears:

This is the way. Walk in it.

Stay and listen to your steps crunching on the road and live in it. Seek, knock, ask. Turn, fall, kneel. And be still in those truths, all your bowl can contain.

For those are yours and all you have here. They are the real.

And those faint and dying lies are only snaking suspicions of an insufficient longing.

 

———————-for further exploration: On Beauty

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