Art by Norman E. Masters
Where does this music come from, this voiceless aria that sings the subtle heart into endless composition? Little by little the days become a theme and variation of ourselves, played into being by the awakening musicians of this our soul's concert.
When the keyboard of imagination starts to sing, I wonder whose hand has known this score before the mind has yet heard it played. What bow rests upon the strings that vibrate to the key of this moment?
The days of our lives are become the movement of an invisible symphony. Whereas before, they were dissonant chords seeking the heart's auditorium. Nightly the soul restores itself in this, the heart of our love song. A passage gets drafted; and we all go looking for the author of this prologue; yet the heart is already moving from an impulse we can only discern by recitation.
Love composes itself with no regard for our petty preferences. It will not be held in any note that cannot be played sweetly by all. It opens the mouth of a bird that will never be caged by a need to chain it to us. When we let go of our personal score, a flock of divine birds comes to nest under our roof. The heart strings play because they do, not because we would have them play any other way.
We have no song to sing that is ours alone. Yet there is no music without us. The dancer on this stage is but the dance. Inspiration arrives dressed in the color we are able to receive it in, dancing in the rainbow self, to remind us of this, its invisible entrance. A ballet that turns us inwards to its source.
My hands on this keyboard, imitate an other hand that has already tuned the heart of us all. We all listen for the next figure of its expression in us, recognizing our own melody performed, by this our transpiring art. This love music is a welling of one chorus, and a chorale of One. We are performed within one hall of becoming, as the variations of a divine enigma.
When you, who are my ears and eyes, catch this wind song, something moves in the heart of us both. Something unfinished in me, becomes completed in you. You find my next line, and write yourself the way I have loved you to be. This part-writing is our tango we dare to enact, that love may render itself in the world.
Where does this love song come from, and what hidden harmony emanates, from what unseen opening? The secret of this flowering is the bud of our surrender to a motif, sung silently as night music, and now become the love that delicately draws us together. We hear ourselves as the echo of every tune. Such preludes become our cadence.
If the spirit of this music we play could be found, it would be an empty shell we had picked up on the shore of illumination, and placed to our ears. God sings in the wave of this passing of one song to an other. Like a distant seabird, love's call is the inspiration of our answer.
Windfall, flux and flotsam. The ecstatic and towering, the flecks of mud upon your shoes. All twinkle in love's eye. Rub your eyes and stamp your feet this is Holy ground. Everything is expressing your perfection.