Shush. You're spoiling it.

To try and articulate the supersensible in english can feel so clumsy...
I lament my inability
to express this moment in writing.

What would I speak of?

I would speak of my heart.
I would try and describe
how it feels to be sitting here,
in Hyde Park, in Perth,
in the midst of a peaceful moment.

Having stepped out of the Theosophical Society's library
with a copy of Rumi's "Masnavi" tucked under my arm,
I found myself a tree and commenced to read.

Reading led to napping,
sleeping to waking,
waking to feeling,
feeling to writing.

The upwelling sensation
of perfect calm and delight
in being present in this life
leaves me with only one option:
devotion.

It is creation itself which moves me so -
the soft dappling of sunlight
rebounding off of lakewater
and illuminating the underside of a leaf,
the silent majesty of the trees
in their exquisitely humble nobility...
the quality of other people's presence
as they move past the periphery
of my stillness
here in this park.

There is such a sweet rapture
to be found in softspoken joy,
far away from the spectacle of festivals
and the over-expressiveness of cities.

The simple harmony of uncluttered natural space -
the interplay of light, shadow and form,
the varied voices of the birds,
the inaudible frenzy of ant activity -
allows for a rich scent
of god's presence
to waft through.

I find it rare, in large groups of people,
to feel such reverence.
Especially rare, ironically,
whenever the gathering is explicitly about god.

I would prefer to watch people simply be with one other,
plainly and truthfully.
Coming together for the express purpose of divinity
can too easily become an inauthentic performance of spirituality.
(And I am more guilty of this than most.)

This quiet reverence moves me to shut my mouth
and put away my pen.

Nothing less than a lifetime of devotion
could possibly express the fullness
of how this feels.