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Worshipping Lali

This messiness is holy

One of my fondest passions is gazing at the wilds beyond our fences, at the impossible sentences our culture cannot frame, and basking in the yawning hymn of a cosmos too magical for words. Dwell on it for a moment, if you will. Consider that you are not the perfunctory equations of sanity and melancholy trapped in strict boundaries of cells and physics. You are not the situation room wherein warring factions must constantly resolve moral dilemmas. You are not contained. You are not private. Consider that you are porous, and that you spill through things, and that what you assume to be ‘you’ is an aspect of a rhapsody of relationships, the temporary knot of an unctuous entanglement of grand whatevers. Imagine you are not an individual, self-evident and sealed, but the working of limbs extended from the suspicious stranger, and the guileless rock, and the unidentifiable star pulsing in the dreamy distance. And when you do, perhaps you might rest as I often do, knowing you are held very closely – maybe so closely that there are no longer any boundaries between you and a world that is supposedly outside the tiring business of maintaining an ego. Then wait. Just wait. Wait. And in that solemn selah, that infinite pause, you might glimpse how holy everything is. This messiness is holy – not in the sense of being clean and righteous, but in the sense of being keen and involved and unsolvable. There, in the wilds yonder, is our home. The dancing festival outside our fences moves to beats within.

 

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.