The reality of mountain tops come home when you look down; that’s when it hits you square in the face. Below every mountain lies a valley in need of grace.
Now you are high; you can touch the blue sky. You are talking to Gd. Your conversation transparent as fresh air.
Overwhelmed by intimacy, you find agreement within yourself and in the mystery all about.
Somehow the pure joy of breathing feels like knowing, of being loved and of loving, like the first person to stand in the garden.
Communication flows like wine; fulfilled in the moment, you are ecstatic; absorbed in oneness, held by your lover, freed by a friend in the singular sacred.
Then the time lapsed movie scene shifts to an inevitable climax; you find yourself in awe of the mystic connection, but shed tears outside the theater looking in. Time stopped, and now starts up again; your attitude hangs by a thread between wonder and regret. You ask was it real or a day dream?
Maybe you should build an altar before you go down to mark this place of special knowing?
Silence pervades as you descend the mountain. There everyday life awaits your return. You long to stay having found bliss. To get back to the joy that is slipping past. The Cheshire Cat who made your heart skip, a wry smile fading to dark.
Nagging your mind, full of mundane obligations, each calls your name. You feel the pull between staying and telling the fantastic story to people below.
You walk down the mountain in wonder and silence, basking in after glow. Suddenly you realize sharing the ineffable is quite impossible; your words will sound unnatural, short of relating the warmth in your heart.
People wait below with serious questions. What can you say? How can you share the extraordinaire?.
The crowd jostles for position, cries out for information, begs for inspiration. In all too human exasperation, you hate the demands but bless their hope. You recognize the desperate search for magic of intervention.
In the grubby world where people exist, you offer grace. Wistful for not being home, you hope your friends will come along. But the deaf can’t hear the music of the spheres and the blind lack a vision of kin-dom. Some people dripping in gold are starving, while the poor are abused for even trying to buy bread. All admire your hope but the burdens of life makes them fearful. So you go to work, and try to heal the broken.
You offer a glimpse of earthly abundance and wait with patience to unveil the kin-dom but earthly rivalries dim human vision and keep peace at a distance.
Mountain top reverie is foreign, easy for the divine. And you know your peak is beyond even the chosen: greedy and in pursuit of another scapegoat, it’s hard for them to climb a spiritual mountain.
And crowned by scandal, suffering performs a shameless dance before your cloud of unknowing.
And in every valley human toil never ends until all rivalries stop their infernal brawling.
THH
3/1/25
Thoughts Have Hands 