WHAT is Love? Ask him who lives, what is life; ask him who adores, what is God?
I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even thine, whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have everywhere sought sympathy, and have found only repulse and disappointment.
Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another’s; if we feel, we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood. This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom of its mother; this propensity developes itself with the developement of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is composed;* a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness; a soul within our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret; with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of our own; and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the type within demands; this is the invisible and unattainable point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules. Hence in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes the living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.
“Happiness is strange; it comes when you are not seeking it. When you are not making an effort to be happy, then unexpectedly, mysteriously, happiness is there, born of purity, of a loveliness of being.” ― Jiddu Krishnamurti
🌹⭐️🌹 the biggest gift I could ever have given this reality , is the devotion to my own healing and awareness both before, during, and after becoming a portal for the deliverance of a Child Of the Heart into this fleshDream…. How can we help to heal this fractured schism of a world if we do not undertake the Great Work and then emit that Seed into the fertile Soul of a Soul who will carry on the blessings we bestow through our devotion to Integration?
I know the extent of how much of my own lineage of trauma and pain has been cleared thru my own participation in the dance of alchemy, by watching my son become a man…. By seeing how different he navigates and how few ‘holes’ he has to fill , and how ‘whole’ his mind and heart and body is; I am grateful beyond words that I dug so deep into the underworld, even if the only result were to be that my son did not have to spend most of his life undoing the patterns and poisons and dysfunctional inheritances we bear from our ancestral lines. We are the forebears, each and every one of us who choose to alchemise the vessel, of a different way of coCreating reality here in this Realm. It’s starts with Us, and with what and how we Birth our Fruits into this Womb, for we are a womb just as the Mother Matrix is a womb, and we can only produce seeds from the particular fruit we have grown.
We CanSeed this Dream Consciously
There are many ways to alter the design and help raise the veils to see the beauty of creation and the dance of selves at play; the absolute miracle of the process of gestating and birthing a new Being into this playground is so beyond scope , and is an absolute wonder to behold.
Have we forgotten what is at play when we participate in this adventure? Please don’t forget, find the magic and majesty in this engagement and watch the seeds become mighty oaks ❤️
We were young lovers eyes peering out of darkness hearts swelling teardrops drifting through the walls of our souls reaching out from nowhere hoping for somewhere to rest to resign long battles tearing open flesh where pain was born long weary nights wondering at the maze of thorns inherited over time over mountains of desperation
We were young lovers fearing ourselves twin flames of craving engaged in a dance of dreams entwined by an invisible thread dangling unseen on the path of our souls.
The road from intensity to greatness passes through sacrifice. ~Kassner
For a long time he attained it in looking. Stars would fall to their knees beneath his compelling vision. Or as he looked on, kneeling, his urgency's fragrance tired out a god until it smiled at him in its sleep.
Towers he would gaze at so that they were terrified: building them up again, suddenly, in an instant! But how often the landscape, overburdened by day, came to rest in his silent awareness, at nightfall.
Animals trusted him, stepped into his open look, grazing, and the imprisoned lions stared in as if into an incomprehensible freedom; birds, as it felt them, few headlong through it; and flowers, as enormous as they are to children, gazed back into it, on and on.
And the rumor that there was someone who knew how to look, stirred those less visible creatures: stirred the women. Looking how long? for how long now, deeply deprived, beseeching in the depths of his glance?
When he, whose vocation was Waiting, sat far from home- the hotel's distracted unnoticing bedroom moody around him, and in the avoided mirror once more the room, and later from the tormenting bed once more: then in the air the voices discussed, beyond comprehension, his heart, which could still be felt; debated what through the painfully buried body could somehow be felt- his heart; debated and passed their judgment: that it did not have love.
(And denied him further communions.)
For there is a boundary to looking. And the world that is looked at so deeply wants to flourish in love.
Work of the eyes is done, now go and do heart-work on all the images imprisoned within you; for you overpowered them: but even now you don't know them. Learn, inner man, to look on your inner woman, the one attained from a thousand natures, the merely attained but not yet beloved form.👁❤️👁
In the darkness of this [analytical] initiation, the two people instinctively move nearer to each other. A bond forms, as if an eros between the dying, something that is other than the transference of past emotions, other than love between pupil and guide, between patient and doctor, a quite rare and inexplicable feeling brought by the mystery of the image.
I do not know what this kind of loving is, but it is not reducible to other more familiar forms. Perhaps it is an experience of the eros in Thanatos. Perhaps it is an experience of telestic eros, of which Plato speaks in the Phaedrus, the eros of the mysteries and initiations of the soul; or, it may have something to do with the creative eros that always occurs when one is close to soul, the myth of (Eros) and Psyche moving through our emotions. Whatever the nature, there is a loving in dream work. We sense that dreams mean well for us, back us up and urge us on, understand us more deeply than we understand ourselves, expand our sensuousness and spirit, continually make up new things to give us- and this feeling of being loved by the images permeates the analytical relationship. Let us call it imaginal love, a love based wholly on relationship with images and through images, a love showing in the imaginative response of the partners to the imagination in the dreams. Is this Platonic love? It is like the love of an old man, the usual personal content of love voided by coming death, yet still intense, playful, and tenderly, carefully close.
BlissNinja 