Let the Mother wash away
all your small dreams of transcendence.
Rest into the discomfort of incompleteness,
the imperfection of this mundane world.
Of our ordinary life
with its ordinary pains and it’s ordinary joys.
There is no escape from this condition.
Nothing will ever fulfill you.
Feel the hopelessness from which truth sprouts.
The blessed poverty that redeems.
Offer it all up to God.
Nothing less passes through the eye of the Needle.
And She can’t use you until you do.
Not manifest this or that.
Your dreams of power.
Give up your gain.
Die to all you cleave.
Give way, give in, consent to Her will.
There is no security.
No bargain you can make.
Let God have you utterly, utterly.
Let it be a bloody mess.
This is the mystery school.
The face of the Black Madonna.
Let life have you.
Strip you to the bone
until the dark radiance of the soul is all you hallow.
You will loose everything.
Let it bring you lower, through the wound,
heart to ground
till you are enthroned in the Queendom of Heaven everywhere.
You are already all you seek.
Let’s grow up.
There is nowhere to run from this moment.
There is nowhere to run from your self.
There is nowhere to run from one another.
We will never be improved enough,
healed enough, deserving enough,
unless we die to all the fuckery we demand
and let Life have us.
Nothing to alleviate the chaos and confusion
and vulnerability of incarnation
but our own tenderhearted presence.
Nothing to humble our generous entanglement with everything.
And so no don’t manifest an ego wonderland.
And may God break in.
How are we to know how She would use us
if we are only wholly hollow?
Empty in God.
The Kotske Rabbe asks,
Where is God to be found?
At the place where She is given entry.
So say yes.
And let her have Her way.
Give up all you most loathe to give.
And give God entry.
Vera de Chalambert