Perfection and Imperfection
It was Love that drove me inward,
Or longing for it, I should say.
For it did not find it in the world,
Nor did I find it in myself,
For it is not love, but Love that I speak of.
An yet… somehow… I knew of it.
Even in my selfishness,
I had a sense of its Presence,
Of Causeless, Conditionless Love,
That Shone simply because,
It was its nature to do so.
A Love in which “I” did not exist.
Even as I sought to grasp and hold,
For my personal satisfaction,
It was there… somehow in the midst,
Perfection in the stew of imperfection,
Flavoring my selfish ends…
Seeking only the Benediction of all.
It was there, mixed up in what I Am,
Like one of many spices in a masala,
But for most of my life, in lesser measure,
Flavoring the experience of being,
Only ever so mildly…
Confounding the imperfect one.
When, one day, I vanished in that Love,
I returned not Perfected, Purified of myself,
But with myself imbued by Love,
Transmuted, more and more, by Love,
Subsumed, more and more, by Love…
Flavored, more and more, by Love.
And this is the proof of Grace,
That The Beloved, Perfect and Pure,
Can dwell in a vessel cracked and broken,
And fill the imperfect seams,
As only Merciful Grace can do…
With Love, Causeless and Unconditional.
If I die, as I suspect I will,
Still cracked, broken, far from perfection,
It is Her Presence within my Heart,
Her Grace within the seams,
That will carry me Home…
To the Perfection that I Am.