All the prophets say we are deluded.
We think we understand our selves,
our minds, the world that seems to be
outside us, but, no, we don’t,
and never know we don’t.
I can believe with Hopkins
That there dwells down deep in us
A freshness or a diamond.
Perhaps many more have felt it
Than I or anyone has guessed, but,
not knowing its name, because
It has no name, they speak of it
Only to the very few they trust.
I think the Lamed-vov
Tzaddikim, are among them
The daily mind we think is our self,
Pursuing the daily round that’s never new,
believes it’s self-contained
and separate from the Gods.
The belief is the separation,
A mask protecting us from the angel
with his sword of light, guarding
the gates of Eden in ourselves,
Save for the moments when the Poetic
Genius, as Blake called Her,
gifts us with an insight, soft or
overwhelming, that is real and new.
But in fact we are not separate.
We are one immortal being whom Blake
called the Giant Albion, housed in,
at last count, eight billion bodies.
Perhaps Albion knows the thoughts
Of other angels in the universe.
Albion is multitudes within us, gods,
The same being, both One and Many,
Guiding our lives along pathways
Whose purpose we may never understand.
We can know we are not separate.
When two people join unselfishly in love,
When the two become one flesh, one soul
in two bodies, as Jesus or someone
said, just as we know sunlight
and need not merely believe in it,
They can know that they are one, not two,
That separation is the illusion.
Sometimes the Poetic Genius or the Muse
Or the Holy Spirit, by whatever name
You call Her, thenWakes them up
Into selves that know we are the Gods.
The Gods gift us with Awakening
When they think we need it,
To save our lives or give us
A task to pursue, but not
when we merely think we want it,
because we’ve heard rumors
about it—but how can we want
What we cannot imagine exists?
Awakening is always a gift.
No one knows why we can’t
Just decide to awaken.
Perhaps the Gods are only trying
To keep us from hurting ourselves.