re-reading letters

I stumbled across this letter, from three summers ago and thought of how my poetry teacher told me I would likely struggle forever over the with the theme of in-articulation and of one of my favorite poems by Jacqueling Berger... The Failure of Language.

memory/or defining god to your agnostic lover... 

Mm. I love the thought of the incarnation as God becoming a creature. I don't think I'd ever thought of it in exactly those terms before... it seems very apropos to deep ecology and God's presence as an element in all things.

You asked me a couple of weeks ago what I mean when I say God... I am still struggling to articulate that and I'm not sure... I mean a lot of things when I say God:  the force, mysterious, of Life, of birthing, of beginning, the essence of consciousness-- as beyond my grasp as how a redwood tree grows or the intelligence of mycellium or electricity and movement creating thoughts and sound and sight. Is God like the internet, containing everything but more-- conscious of all that is contained in a way we can't understand. An afterlife. What does that mean? Yet when I sit and pray I know deep inside myself in the truest way that I am connecting with a thing outside myself. I ache for God, and for mercy to have patience, to accept the revelations the Godself willingly gives, to accept the limitations of my own animal body and perception. Jesus. Not the fullness of God in a way we can comprehend, because we can never hope to comprehend and contain God in our understanding-- but the fullness of God- to me an incarnation... maybe that is the mystery of Christ, learning to incarnate full-animal-body humanity and divine spirit, non-dualism. The incarnation of Hagia Sofia.

Yesterday I sat in my friend's empty house with the patio doors open and woodwind music playing and witnessed a rainstorm gather, one solitary drop at last falling on the melon-orange tiny petals and rolling lavishly off the the thick tongue of a leaf below. Then a chorus of fine mist as thin as wisps of waterfalls carried off by wind. It climaxed in a brief exultation of lush, heavy beads-- fat and extravagant-- throwing up tiny applause of splashes and just as suddenly dissipated. The sun reached its palms to cover the entire porch as if it were a lover stretching out to press against everywhere the rain had laid down. It felt like a private, intimate gift between the sky and I to watch it quiet and still. "As for me I know of nothing else but miracles."

(What miracles have you seen today?)

God. It's an empty word (like love or f*ck, useless words.) But, maybe the emptiness of the word-- the nothingess and everything is in a way another way of knowing 'god.' I like to refer to God as Uncreated One, Ein Sof, etc. Maybe when I say God I mean... this mystery that we can know pieces of.