I am bored and, damn it, I am angry. Frustrated? Maybe, but that is too mild a word. I pick up a book, cast a cursory glance over its contents, and throw it down in disgust. I am dry; it's as if all the moisture has been drained from my spiritual being. I've had enough; no more reading, no more writing; no more blogging. I say again, I have had enough! I want to walk away and leave it all behind me.
It would seem that wherever I turn I am following someone else's agenda; reading what those authors have said; following in their footsteps. Well what about me? No, I'm not indulging in self-pity, I want to know where I stand with that which I choose to call God, and what I am supposed to be doing. If I ever catch up with that divinity, so help me there will be the very
Devil Heaven to pay. I am tired and I am angry. Didn't I say that already? Well I'll say it again: I am angry! Now don't let the Church or one of its representatives say that anger is a sin, without issuing a sharp rebuttal. It isn't a sin! Anger is not like a bullet that is designed to kill. It is like a car that is designed to get one somewhere, quickly and efficiently. Anger is what it is, an emotion, a very powerful concentration of energy. It is only the self-indulgent ego that insists anger must be assuaged through violence.
Oh what is the point of it all? I want to know where my life must go, what I must do. But I do not simply want my wishes indulged in for the sake of my ego. I want to know because it is needful that I take at least some responsibility for myself. So, God, don't indulge me! Show me!
Through all my ranting at God, I know that no matter what I choose to discard, there is one thing I will not let slide. I will return to my room, and I will meditate and give that Power some of my time. Yet all I have on which to meditate is my anger in my private desert.
I light a candle, my symbol of Life; I light a joss stick to symbolise, not a sacrifice but, my spirit freely offered. I pull down the blind, for this is now a private, sacred place. And all the while Gregorian Chant plays softly in the background. Slowly my anger subsides:-
".........I find myself sitting on a throne situated halfway down a flight of stairs. Try as I will I am unable to get any lower. Gently but insistently, I am returned to my throne. Before long I cease from trying and wait, all the while taking in the layout of this place. Below me at the foot of the stairs is the floor, rather like a private theatre stage. And it is very private, for this is my personal Temple. At the centre of the square floor is a low, square table - or is it an altar? - covered in what I know to be a white, samite cloth. Everything about this Temple is pleasing to my eye; it does in a very real sense appeal to me.
Behind me. the stairs continue up towards the door that shuts out the light of the outside world. I have no interests out there. What captivates my interest is the presence of three more stairways leading up from the floor below me, through simple, Gothic arches to who knows where? Again I am struck by the pleasing simplicity and intimacy of this Temple.
"Oh God, do not indulge me, please! Let me hear only what I need to hear."
Each stairway ascends from one of the remaining sides of the floor so that the floor appears to be a landing stage, a meeting place, or a place from which journeys will begin. And suspended in mid-air, below the highest point of the Gothic ceiling hangs a sword, pointing downwards, the Sword of Truth.
Now I am beginning to understand. Before I can rise to new, as yet undiscovered, heights, or perhaps return to old places made new, I must first descend to the landing stage, I must first go deeper. I might not have chosen to do that, if indeed I have that measure of control, if all had been well and comfortable beyond the stairs behind me. But all is not comfortable in the desert, and for that reason I am here, where I need to be. And here will I wait until......well until whatever must happen, does happen.........."
[My morning meditation.]