Art by Norman E. Masters
My body knows in existential ways that are far beyond mental knowing. Shakespeare was no idiot. My most sincere prayers are my reflexive crossing of myself when I encounter something horrific, sign language "thank you" and "I love you", the Asian honoring bow with palms templed, and dropping to my knees with hands upraised in praise. The grace of holding hands around a table surpasses, for me, the grace that gets said in words. The blessing of the breeze, sun, or rain upon my skin remains my deepest affirmation. Sex or just plain holding are a most sacred part of love. Dance is, for me (as well as historically) the most fundamental and sacred art. When my grandson blows me a kiss across a room, I receive it more deeply than any words of love. The greatest defiling and desecration of the body is not the sexual sin the Church abhors, but the disrespect and disgust for the bodily that it has traditionally imposed. Along with Sophia, whose wisdom is manifest not abstract, Magdalene must rise again in our consciousness and respect.
The end of time is the realization of the eternal now. ~~ Burl Hall
It is birth, out of Sophia's womb, and into her eternal presence. ~~ Merry
Time is basically an illusionary construct created by the mind to describe the sequence of the unfolding of events. ~~ Burl Hall
Time-space is the umbilical cord that allows us to nurse now-here on the nectar of forever-more. ~~ Merry
And we are verbs... reverberating in the music chamber of God's will to become.
If we were just megaphones or even sophisticated robot voices of Sophia's Truth, we would not delight Her by recreating and personalizing Her ideas. We could not love Her, long for Her, and fulfill Her. But once free will is given, so is the desire to be #1.
I, for one, am glad Eve had the mental balls to eat that apple. I want to know -- in every sense of the word -- good and evil. I want to choose, to love, and to recreate. I want to submit by choice, not by force or -- worse -- inevitability to Her divine Wisdom, to His divine Will.
Balls are simply ovaries that have fallen a ways, rather like the other famous apple, Newton's, because men have to be hit on the head to "get it." Their thinking is so linear. Eve is right-minded enough to allow me some metaphorical freedom here. She's not the one that got the apple stuck in her throat half way down. Even though you can't see hers -- balls, ovaries, apples, whatever you want to call them -- doesn't mean she hasn't got'em. She's spitting out their seeds all over the place.
Doing is yang to the yin of conceiving and intending. Both must participate equally in the ongoing dance of becoming.
February, June 2001