Wish You May, Wish You Might

I guess it is like white tailed deer drawn to cedar twigs in winter time or books that begin with a map.

Mystical love is an insanity that possesses, transforms and tortures the lover in agony. This is infinite desire. And this is the love that must be forsaken to taste Love at all. So sink lower. Further. Fall into vertigo. Empty the soul and then empty it a little more in order to unify with the divine abyss itself. Only then will the soul remember who she is.

Animal tracks become reservoirs in softening snow. Kneel to drink the sky.

There is a purification happening and it involves living without a “why.” Reason doesn't have a say, beloved, wish you may, wish you might. Such cunning attempts interfere with the ties that bind one to God's heart and mouth. Our lovesickness has a cure, though it is not for the feint of heart. Physical oneness is the call of the Trinity. Can you feel it?

What lies beyond the suffering is the salvation of the love our human heart can only begin to clamor for. A winter prayer in the voice of Mechthild: May I live with Mary Magdalene in the desert, finding all alien to me other than Beloved alone.

A silver squirrel sits atop a sawed-off stump using his tail as shield against winter wind; I, too, am cold.