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From whence do the new becomings spring?
through what Moria-like maze do they wander,
into what cavernous deeps to they delve,
before succumbing to the inevitability of their life,
their quietless transformation into themselves
the shared revelation of their existencing in the world?

Who am I but a becoming like these,
my own wandering into myself
through the darkened spaces of my soul
ever and ever into the distanced light peering from the great beyond?

These seeds of myself I have sewn,
sometimes in sandy soils too shifty to find purchase,
sometimes in rocky ground without moisture,
and occasionally into moist, earthy humus,
but even there they will find no truth if not tended – and left alone

This, then, is the dilemma:
to care only just enough to spur on growth
without suffocating the air with overattentiveness

But my soul cries out for water, for warmth,
for the mystical unknowing of the flow-without-ego,
the purity of the gift of self unlooked for and always given,
although not always received

do you, gentle wanderer, find yourself as I,
questing into the terrible ferocity of your own darkness,
hoping beyond hope that you are not alone,
that it is possible to transmute what you hate and fear most
into the sustaining bread which,
baked in the spagyric fires of your inmost soul,
you can finally break for the community
as a healing force borne of transformed suffering?

Do you not see that we all bear this chrism?
That it flows from your wounds like liquid jewels,
when your attention grasps itself in love?

This, O careful reader, may you be sure of –
Never once in your life has your foot taken one step alone,
never has your inner gaze not been met,
and never has your sorrow not also contained the forces
for its own overcoming.

The new becomings are even now lying in wait,
abiding deep in the recesses of your heart,
in the little open spaces where fear has not yet crept,
and their only wish is for the light of your attention
to rest ever so softly on their delicate unfolding,
and with the rhythm of the dawn, to silently
speak: YES

© 2009 Seth Miller | Design by Seth Miller | Alchemical.org