Part Seven (the last): Love's Dark Chalice Spills at Midnight

Come, mother, stand beside me. Father has taken his position on the Hill of Resurrection and calls upon the magisterial beings of the cosmos to attend the arrival of the Golden Flower. Night is swiftly falling and you have a choice to make, a choice that will define you for eternity and open up new doorways for beings yet unknown to extend the exploration of existence into realms impossible for mortal minds to imagine. Existence itself surveys the land upon which we stand. You are the mother itself, your existence as mother, and there the father, who watches us with his deepest awareness, performs his functions as time master with increasing uncertainty that what he is doing carries the same meaning as it has done on election days past. In that awareness he has garnered a new truth, and as he draws in the star beings to bear witness to our glory as a people and as he draws in the consciousness of all citizens of the land as holders of the flame of living truth, and as the fringes of his being reach out to the whole world to receive the Golden Flower, he is experiencing a dread that shatters the most basic boundaries of his existence, self, love, and the sacredness of living. This is as it should be. For I am here.

How can you, dearest son and now cold harbinger of an uncertain future, so surely abandon what you have always known as life and love, in favor of something which surely does not manifest itself nobly in you, despite a bottomless beauty which appears to be the root of your form and which threatens to distract me from the matter at hand, for if the purpose of this moment is to recommend something that cannot be understood, who would not choose death over the frightening deep darkness in your eyes? You ask me to choose between standing here with you fearless and unmoving as the Golden Flower emerges out of the galactic mind, or rejoining your father and my most beloved husband, whom you have loved and honored for hundreds of years and sung his praises throughout the land and whom you have begged to follow into deep meditation. So, I ask you, beloved son and mysterious interrupter of all our lives and hopes, what you are offering me as a basis of choosing, since choosing appears to have lost all relevance in your existence.

Choosing is relevant, my beloved mother, but only in the most undefined creases between this angle of existence and another.

Son, please do not talk to me of creases of existence when my heart is breaking for loss of a son and the fear and confusion that is crawling across my husband’s face as you speak to me in this way. Give me something to choose between, my son, something more than this plane of existence or that! Would you abandon all hearts that love? I don’t know who or what you are, but I know my husband. In this moment there is no choice to make.

What is it you wish to hear, mother? Something about the Supreme Self, the goodness of God, the unity of all things, the ascension of the human race, love and truth, happiness and joy, time surfing, the galactic mind? What are these things that you would forego the uplifting of your race into a higher existence. Even the most glorious bounty of living and loving, which you have shared with the world, especially with your son and husband, are specks of eternal scrum now settling into the void without protest from the grand singers of praise of the galactic glory. For they do not know and cannot imagine what this moment has brought them to. Do you know what is about to happen? Tell me, mother, what do you see? Discover and reveal. If you wish to see the Golden Flower arrive and shed its bounty across the land, reveal who you are now. There are doors to open which only you can see.

Do I not truly see what you are? At last you are as real to me as you are to yourself, and what I know about myself is that here, “I,” is what I stand on. You, my son, are the most wicked wielder of the flameless fire, dragon of the ground, and hopelessness redeemed into the primal impulse of pure existence, which no mortal can weave into personal living. This “I” sees what it sees when I look at you. The ground from which you speak, and from which I now speak, and which my husband struggles right now to know, and which the people of the world have yet to touch or even suspect and can never know as long as they wait on this hillside eyes vacant in blind expectation for the Golden Flower to align them with their future lives, as they have chosen for millennia. The choice available to them has always been much deeper than they consciously know. This is what you mean for me to see.

Today, as has been the case on every Day of Election in New America, they are deciding whether to plunge unconsciously into more centuries of life stories within which to hide themselves from reality, or to awake and directly engage the naked fire of life, the “I” struggling with what to be, the primordial urge that creates, sustains, and destroys universes, to consciously self-exist as the undefined “I” with unsupported certitude that they are real, each individual as a quantum particle of existence choosing absolutely to exist. This is the totality of what I see, my son. Right now, at this moment, the whole human race powered by individual quantum particles of absolute existence is poised to transpose themselves onto the next plane of the quantum cosmos. No, no, this can’t be! I still have tears to shed for all the living and dying that has defined who we are!

You offer this cold, absolute thing that originally is! This “I”, this original thing tucked away in my being, before love, before truth, and beauty, hope, and joy. That’s what you are, my confounding son. How can you bear this? This eternal unsettledness. Which? How can I say? Which direction to take? No, that’s not it. What not to engage? No. What is the original question, my dark son, for I see now that you are truly the offspring of my own doubt and uncertainty. The “what?” in everything, left only with the faith my husband seems to value so much in me. Now I see. Ultimate and absolute. My son, we have been here before. We have always been here, all these realities folded into each other, too deep to manage, too unknown and unsettling to court. But here now as you and me.

Yes, mother, we have been here many times before, poised to make the choice or not. Only you have never had me stand manifest by your side, and for that reason the choice you and the human race have always made has been no. We do not wish to awake, we do not wish to face the unformed “I”, the godhead of existence. I am here to ask you how much more dreaming you think is available to the human race before commanding forces descend upon them? It will take a gesture, a commanding gesture from the race itself, from you, to open the door into the quantum cosmos, an opportunity generated out of the thousands of millions of years of existence in this universe on this planet in the many houses and hearts of inhabitants who come into the world and depart it, over and over again, unready to take the necessary stand of choosing without a known basis, without something that has arisen out of the fabric of the thousands of millions of lives whose choices were always soaked up by future dreams. This is a quantum moment where behind you lies the familiarity of all of creation, and ahead lies the absolute unknown. You are the impossibility of human advancement without me.

Here, mother, the source and redeemer of all uncertainty, thus, the Golden Flower. Take it in your hand. You are the mother of this race and races unseen, the chooser between continuing slumber in the dream realms of planetary life and sudden awakening into the quantum cosmos, and there is your husband, who has just now grasped the significance of the moment and is remembering the many times he has faced this dilemma before and has failed to carry the Golden Flower into the unknown, who has instead always fabricated as time master more beautiful dreams for more living and dying. But this time is different, my mother. He sees it. He sees that you are the bearer of the Golden Flower, that it does not arise from the galactic being of his dream making, and that standing next to you is the heart of the unknown, the unbearable made bearable, the heart’s dark blood spilled at midnight and redeemed through the impossible, all-beautiful form of the unreferencable walking at your side and gesturing you forward.

A heaviness descends. I am tired.
I have spun this world out of the immortal fire of my being,
while distant stars and unknown dreams coldly turn around it.
Poised now within the fire of one mighty question after another,
I set my intent. There is no turning back.
As my “I” closes, silence rises in waves of bliss,
and I am no more than drops of water on a lover’s face
waiting to be kissed.