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for the love of god

Updated: Jan 25, 2019

I’ve got a dirty little secret: I’m head over heels for God. In fact, lately we’ve been having a full on fucking love affair, and actually, it’s getting pretty serious.


A few years ago, I went through a skull-rockingly painful breakup with God—what I understood to be God—and I guess you could say we’re having make up sex now. And while this is pretty much the most tremendous, awesome feeling (as in mysterium tremendum and so fucking full of awe as to be fearsome), I’ve been afraid to admit it publicly. Because mystics are madmen, and I—a decent woman full of decorum and deference—am not mad.


Who the fuck am I kidding with that shit, though? I mean, really.


The truth is, my entire life has been steeped in madness; my body the tea bag.


To clarify, for those of you who just tuned in, I’m not talking man in the clouds kind of God. Not the God of the religions of the book, or the God of girlhood prayers. I speak not of the God of dogma, the God of fears and judgments, of empty ritual and proselytizing. That God is born from the pettiness of men’s minds, not the lived experience of throbbing sensation animating absolutely everything. There is no room for that God in this one, for that God draws lines in the sand. And yet, in the heart of this God, even the lines in the sand smack of divinity, of the stuffness that is only ever always happening. The God of which I speak is not really a God at all, as much as it is a happening, an occurrence of the most epic proportions flooding all of reality with pure is-ness. Do you see it? It’s right here.


So, I must confess. I must come clean about this profane orgy of sacred realization, I must tell the truth: I’m utterly gushing over the simple vitality of what’s only ever always happening, I swoon for synchronicity, and become only *slightly* mad when sensing the all-pervasive IS penetrating all of manifest reality. Naturally, like anyone with a dirty little secret, I've only got my shame to blame for my silence of late: it is the muzzle I have begrudgingly worn, the straitjacket with which I was unbeknownst to me bound, and depressed mute button on my voice box. What I’m realizing lately, as I remember the sparkling purity that is the substrate of all of life, is that I’ve been deeply ashamed to be so content in my knowing, so held by this sultry love. Sometime in the interim between our breakup (mine & god’s) and now, my prodigal return, I’ve grown ashamed of my heart. I’ve become ashamed of the reality that my deepest, realest experiences have shown me the nature of the universe, and that that nature is plainly an effervescent, bubbling, looping, fractal, holographic, tumbleweed of happening behind-the-scenes penetrating ever deeper into the soft, supple, spiraling happening of the scenes we see. Somehow, over the years, I’ve turned my realest truth into a dirty secret. Somehow, over the years, it became easier to lie than let you know that I’m living in the wild, flaming heart of God.


Yes, the god of which I speak is perverse; it’s wet & slutty & shamelessly kinky. Some days, it pins me down and raids my orifices just to watch me squirm.

How did shame creep so mightily into my being? How has it come to be that the thing I’m most afraid of revealing to the world is that I’m in love with what is? It would seem that breaking up with god a few years back left room for a false god to grown in its place: a god that made me believe my experience of gnosis is itself false, a god that convinced me there is something flawed with my nondual knowing, a god that bid me fear rejection more than my own brilliant honesty, a god that told me my knowing was broken.


Bad luck for Falsey though; this True Love is mightily resilient. Indeed, it has become all the brighter in the face of my rejection. What I tucked away as a cute votive candle of trembling strength has bloomed into a roaring, inextinguishable bonfire while my back was turned. What was the darling dalliances of puppy love has matured into the steamy, erotic union of form with formlessness in my very bones.


Let’s call it the Holy Whoa. The Holy Whoa as in whoa this thing’s alive? The Holy Whoa as in whoa dude, who turned on the fucking lights? The Holy Whoa as in whoa, this kitty’s got claws, and whoa there Nelly! , and whoa, these are really fucking good, man. The Holy Whoa as in whoa is me and whoa NOW and whoa is right. This is the kind of thing that’s so intimate with the moment we almost miss it, so close we see right through it.


So there it is folks: I’m a fucking god-junkie. I’m a junkie for synchronicity, depth, and truth. I’m a junkie for simplicity and silence. I’m a junkie for tumbling through chaos full of nothing but trust and soft breath. I’m a junkie for long nights staring at the fire doing nothing but holding space for my soul to bubble forth and burn in solidarity. I’m a junkie for the majesty of saying absolutely nothing, and I’m a junkie for reading between the lines of shallowness to feel the base layer of Truth that permeates literally everything. I’m a junkie for being penetrated and I’m a junkie for annihilation and I’m a junkie for being so full of myself I explode into a million little pieces and have to humbly pick myself up and reconstruct reality again, and again, and again. I’m a junkie for receiving gifts in every moment, and I’m a junkie for searching ever deeper into the fabric of reality to find there is so much meaning in the meaninglessness.

I’m also a junkie for realizing there’s no there there, nothing really matters, and cause-and-effect are merely a trick of the mind. I’m a junkie for the void and the paradox of the ever-full nothingness. I’m a junkie for losing control and I’m a junkie for being so totally precise there’s no need to either control or surrender because only one thing is happening anyway. I’m a junkie for the fact that it’s all happening. It’s all *only ever always happening.* There is nothing but happening. There is nothing but happening. I’m a junkie for the feeling of aliveness that pulses through every cell of my being, and I’m a junkie for the way my body feels when I’ve untangled some psychological knot that has me lost in forgetting. I’m a junkie for realizing my own death and the game of make-believe that says we die when we die. I’m a junkie for the fact that there really isn’t any separation, which means there really isn’t a me, and there really isn’t a you. I’m a junkie for communications from the unconscious throwing me coded curveballs, and a junkie for everything arriving in perfect timing. I’m a junkie for the feeling of angel wings at my back, the tremors of fear that urge me to risk it all, and the way I disappear when God takes up residence in my very blood, bidding me spill it on the page.


Call me a madwoman or call me wrong. Call me worse if you wish.

This whole damn thing is just IS IS-ING. It’s all just is is-ing on all of our faces. Yes, the god of which I speak is perverse; it’s wet & slutty & shamelessly kinky.

Yea, it's hot like that.

Some days, it pins me down and raids my orifices just to watch me squirm. Other days it ignores me entirely until I come begging for attention on all fours, a bitch in heat. On yet other days, the hot, sandpaper tongue of God licks me up and down like a newborn kitten, leaving me purring contentedly in a puddle of gushy love. The God of which I speak is the kind of God that sometimes grabs me by my ankles and holds me upside down until all my change is shaken loose—until I am change itself. It is the kind of God that dares me strip naked and become so intimate with reality there is no distinction between it, God, and me. This is not the God of your grandma’s pastor, or the God of scripture—although this God is certainly there, if you know how to read the symbols—but the God of the Big Bang endlessly banging, of effing the ineffable and coming back for more, of no-such-thing-as-sloppy-seconds-because-its-always-only-just-happening-now, of getting screwed and loving it, of making love not war. The God of which I speak is the simplest thing there is; it is what remains when there’s absolutely nothing left.


So, now you know. Call me a madwoman or call me wrong. Call me worse if you wish. I’m in love, and fucking proud of it.




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