Climbing

Climbing

the mountain of character,

high on that utmost view,

and Love Divine

crumbles the mountain,

and tumbling

into the groundlessness

of ground,

leveled,

we are no more

character of character.

And to even think

we are better than a murderer

is already

to commit murder.

Again,

Love knows no opposite,

and lives

to die for all,

and all

die into Love

to live.

Something rises

as a life being shaped—

a quiet forming,

a sense of height,

of seeing more clearly

from above.

Nothing wrong in this.

Nothing misplaced.

And yet,

even here,

a thin thread remains—

almost unseen—

of standing somewhere.

And Love…

does not leave it as it is.

Not by force.

Not by correction.

But by giving

everything.

So completely,

so without reserve,

that nothing can remain

as something separate

that stands.

What seemed like a mountain

is not pushed down—

it is taken into

something measureless.

And the falling

is not away,

but into.

Into a depth

that was never beneath,

never beyond—

only unnoticed.

Where no one stands

over another.

Where no life

can be held apart

as lesser or greater.

And so even the thought—

so subtle—

of being other than,

better than,

closer than—

cannot stay.

Not because it is denied,

but because it finds

no ground.

This is a tenderness

so complete

it does not divide.

A giving

so total

it does not keep a center.

Like a life

poured out entirely—

not as loss,

but as Love

refusing to remain

separate from anything.

And still—

there is walking,

speaking,

touching,

seeing.

Ordinary light

on ordinary things.

Nothing withdrawn.

Only the quiet absence

of standing apart.

Only Love—

no longer held

as someone’s.

Only this

unbroken

nearness.

and Love Divine

crumbles the mountain,

and tumbling

into the groundlessness

of ground,

leveled,

we are no more

character of character.

And to even think

we are better than a murderer

is already

to commit murder.

Again,

Love knows no opposite,

and lives

to die for all,

and all

die into Love

to live.

Commentary

Something rises

as a life being shaped—

a quiet forming,

a sense of height,

of seeing more clearly

from above.

Nothing wrong in this.

Nothing misplaced.

And yet,

even here,

a thin thread remains—

almost unseen—

of standing somewhere.

And Love…

does not leave it as it is.

Not by force.

Not by correction.

But by giving

everything.

So completely,

so without reserve,

that nothing can remain

as something separate

that stands.

What seemed like a mountain

is not pushed down—

it is taken into

something measureless.

And the falling

is not away,

but into.

Into a depth

that was never beneath,

never beyond—

only unnoticed.

Where no one stands

over another.

Where no life

can be held apart

as lesser or greater.

And so even the thought—

so subtle—

of being other than,

better than,

closer than—

cannot stay.

Not because it is denied,

but because it finds

no ground.

This is a tenderness

so complete

it does not divide.

A giving

so total

it does not keep a center.

Like a life

poured out entirely—

not as loss,

but as Love

refusing to remain

separate from anything.

And still—

there is walking,

speaking,

touching,

seeing.

Ordinary light

on ordinary things.

Nothing withdrawn.

Only the quiet absence

of standing apart.

Only Love—

no longer held

as someone’s.

Only this

unbroken

nearness.