Sweet Bliss

Poetry is not something I often write. When inspiration strikes, holding the poet's tongue would prove more difficult than catching a comet by its tail. The words flow like rivers from springs magically rising from rock and soil — a freshet of such strength and volume that make it seem all Nature is behind it, rushing to give it birth.

When such a Muse touches the mind's ear, heavenly symphonies sound. There is no care for rhyme or rhythm, but somehow they are found. At times, the mind calls forth words from depths that intellect finds strange and new. And yet dictionary shows them to be true.

Where do such blessings originate? Are they accidents from chemicals, drink or fate? No, they come from within. No mortal wrote these things. They come on gossamer wings and light within the soul, working their way through brain and out the fingertips.

Sometimes a situation can yield insights, but the individual has to be prepared for it. A hardened cynic might take assaults in traffic as merely another reason to hate life and to despise their fellow humans.

And yet, one ordinary afternoon a few decades ago, I found half a dozen assaults bring me to the brink of rage, only to find me standing at the precipice sprouting wings. Within that moment, the world changed. Bright shafts of light flooded my body with warmth and peace. Attention no longer lingered in earthly trespass. Such dire temptations were forgotten in an instant. My ire had melted and had left me dry with the sweet breeze of heavenly bliss.

Not only did I no longer see the other drivers as adversaries, but they were completely forgiven. I knew in that moment the true meaning of turning the other cheek. For they could have done anything they wished and I would have blessed them for it. Such was the invulnerability of the moment.

I held no mortal importances. Getting to my destination no longer mattered. I would get there, because it was my responsibility, but I felt no burden—no rush.

Because I had taken one hundred percent of the responsibility for those assaults, I was no longer victim. I had risen above the victim-perpetrator dichotomy and felt only peace. That was my first taste of pure forgiveness.

A moment later, as the true self—the inner giant arisen—turned toward my destination, I saw the anatomy of a miracle, and all obstacles were swept away in moments. The hand of God had moved just as it had for Moses—between Egyptians and waters deep.

The following poem was inspired by Denise Handlon's Hub: I Wonder—What Does a Spiritual Person Look Like?

Her words touched the same part of me that had awoken that day so many years ago.

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What ancient memories do stir within,
Quiet stillness, warm and free from sin.
Love,
Caress,
Bliss,
This!

The awakening giant shrugs off
The blanket of forgetfulness,
Feeling the Father's loving touch,
Just as it always was.

Sweet rescue,
Take me away from this
When the time is right
And the moment true.

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