Below is a piece by Rilke, e-mailed to me by a dear one. What follows that is the immediate response. It has come to know itself as Sweater.
fill it out, like an expectant and becoming fifth grade girl,
done with the flat world
ready for something to be touched by, through,
play with me,
she knows it will be different with she, than the girls pressed up against the dance floor walls. she can feel glistening in her eyes. she feels the darkness’ magic. she loves G-d already, though she is patient.
the moment nipple contacts
of the longing she is waiting to embody,
she finds it is not the cup. it is not the breast. it is not the beauty. it is the feminine presence coursing through her blood that is called by her name sometimes, and she is awed, knowing it is everyone. the very one. and ravishes the body she is beckoned to inhabit.
what walks in me heats me drowning. it is i only for i've given everything to it, including my name.
it cannot say embody me, any longer.
i am inside It and wearing Its clothes.
don't listen to these words. feel me. if this body explodes, don't cry. explosion is the edge of longing surpassed. if only, if only, we are, will be the burning bush. take the heat - like the bomb canister beside the western wall. let's endure it. let me endure and live through the heart of your light. roasted by , eaten by, wide opened by you. which way, i care not. i trust you will have me your way - the way that it happens is yours'. always. always.
G-d's will is the unraveling. we are not the thread, the story, the unfolding little thruline of consequence. i am the naked body. i am the hand. i am undone by all that is i. i am what happens. i am the lover. i am open to everything.
After seeing this, a rabbi asked if I was okay. Understandable. Toward that concern, I offer clarification:
The death-cry here is an ego-death. Of the oh so little ‘me’ that is the hand held over the eyes, causing doubt as to the Presence of the Sun.
And so it is. D i s s o l v e d into the A l l .