Comes the Morning

          It had been a puzzling rather than a difficult day. After all, time passes whether we will it or not, so the passing of the day was not a difficulty. But in an odd sort of way small events, that I had become accustomed to happening, were not occurring at least in the almost-but-not-quite present. This experience, which seemed to be almost-but-not-quite attached to the passing of the day, left me feeling not being quite present in the here and now. It was a relief, therefore, when tiredness decided that it was time for bed.....and dream time.

..........She came to me, the female Presence of the Morning, and asked whether I was still wedded to the Presence of the Evening. I affirmed that I was, that the breaking away from all-that-has-been was proving to be too difficult. My questioner, the younger Presence, still too immature to have any knowledge, but yet full of knowing, replied that I could not touch her. I could not experience the touch of the one whilst holding onto the other.
          In my dream I turned to that older other, the Presence of the Evening, so full of knowledge yet with so little knowing.  She would not respond to my entreaties but chose, rather, to communicate with her younger rival across the intervening Dark Night. There seemed to be no animosity between them, and this I did not understand. They spoke in quiet tones, too quiet for me to hear. But it seemed as if much passed between them with an authority around the Presence of the Morning, the spirit of all-that-might-yet-be, that was unmatched by the Presence of the Evening, the spirit of all-that-has-been.
          I was assailed by words, beating at my head and my heart. Blackness lay in the words shouted like hammer blows by the Presence of the Evening. I felt so wretched and powerless, unable to justify my desire to put aside all the enlightenment that she had given me. Thankless wretch! And the black words came ever more rapidly until they filled the space around me. I could have no direct response to her. Instead I went to my inner, private room and began to destroy everything that I owned, everything that gave any clue as to what and who I was, to what I have been. Yet still came the attacks.
          And on the third day came peace. There were no more words of assault. The spirit of all-that-has-been had returned to the evening. Between her and the spirit of all-that-might-yet-be, God's promise and perfection, stood, in all its intensity, the Dark Night of my continuation..........

          Time passes wearily, yet I seem to be caught in a kind of timelessness, a not quite here-ness. The Presence of the Evening has become ever more fixed in the past, like once joyful stars imprisoned in a static opacity; the times of all that once was. The Presence of the Morning approaches in the world of the spirit, as surely as the day follows the night in the temporal world. Around and through her is fluidity and transparency, an avatar from what might yet be. And I must be ready; I must be ready.