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When the weariness of search brings us to standstill, when all our works seem in vain, when pain and pleasure are interchangeable, when all answers supplied by thought are exposed as fallacious, when Love seems out of reach and Reality unattainable, when we are in truth hopelessly lost, the Mystery persists, the unfathomable fact of Being.

Fear gives way to subdued wonder, thought to deadened echoes; action to

perfunctory necessity, feeling to numbness

requires too much effort. Only the Mystery persists in all its fabulous, impenetrable darkness and Light. Whither we come, whither go, supremely what we "know", all is empty and worthless. At the end of answers, questions themselves end, and another way suggests itself that can never be put into words another may hear. There seems to a beckoning, though, from afar magnetism exerts itself, arms open

to receive. How true it is that, as Krishnamurti said, "Truth is a pathless land." But only after years of futile effort can we begin to glimpse the profundity, dignity and

integrity of this timeless observation: "

in or out, untouched by man or beast, un-found. "Pathless": not able to be walked or worked to. A mystery, a boundless, groundless place without size or shape or depth or any doors. Just Mystery. As the dictionary would have it: something that "cannot be explained". Such finality: "cannot". Forever beyond explanation, forever out of the reach of thought.


the Mystery persists. Even prayer


pathless land", like a forest with no roads

What is the Mystery? A mystery without solution, without clues, that never began and never ends. Every perception of its intangible Reality ends in sublime frustration and a quiet yearning to be United. The Mystery persists. To "persist": by ”

the dictionary, to "continue steadfastly or obstinately

continuation is eternity. "Steadfastly"? Oh, yes, how much more steadfast can anything be than to render all approaches to it impassable save those beyond the grasp of nearly every sentient being? "Obstinately"? Yes, but not in the all-too- human sense of stubbornness, not in the least begrudging is this Misery. On the contrary, it gives without end, gives all it Is, creates what might remain Uncreated were it not that by its very Being it must expose Itself in the clues we call our lives and dreams. How much more will the Mystery persist until "I" die? I long to be alone in the wild places of this earth, alone forever with the Mystery, until it consumes me. Why struggle on with this paltry, painful mind when the Mystery beckons so?

"Continue"? Only in that its

Oh, to be merged in the Mystery, or be lost forever in its darkness, never to

emerge again! How many miles more will I travel in search of the mystery, how

with it the most unutterable longing to enter it, to knows its dimensions even for a second. What use has God for me? One looks at one's life and finds some love, but never enough. What place is there in myself that I must transgress to feel again the

much longer will I push Love away before it crushes me? The

Mystery persists, and

Presence, the Mystery unbound, out flowing in all its might and fury? Why have I

so thoroughly deprived myself of almost every blessed thing that brings comfort and

a sense of purpose? Why, why, if not to lie bare these intimations of the Mystery? Why, if not to show me that all my need are already fully, over flowingly met in God.

Even self-condemnation, even self-hatred, does no good, because you can no more hate God - which you are - than you can love Love. There is no separation

possible to allow such a perversity. Creation is full of paradox, yes, but never perversity: whatever perversity seems present is due to unclear seeing. If you condemn or hate yourself you only succeed in loving God al the more, because God

is the great live living transmutation of energy, and the moment hate is despatched

from the weary, woeful mind it enters - hits - a God-field of energy that can absorb and transmute it in less timer than it takes a thought to transit the mind. Similarly, to question anything is futile, as the answer always precedes questions, is omnipresent and continually being given. To look is to be struck blind. To ask is to remain unanswered. To think is to be rendered thoughtless. To hope is to be left hopeless. All is dissolved in God, all is recast in Love, and all is reclaimed by the Mystery and somehow secretly redistributed.

No matter how long and hard our search continues, no matter what force is exerted, nothing can be changed without the consent of the One, of the Mystery. When you feel helpless, feel it. When you are lost, feel it. But don't mistake these

feelings even for what they seem

we struggle to chain to our wan existentialism. Go to God knowing that He is never anywhere but in you. Seek the source of the Mystery knowing it will never surrender itself. And go to it knowing that its heart of hearts will tear you apart.


are still only shadows of the Mystery that

Yes, the Mystery persists. But so does all else It Is. The two are bound, inseparable. What space can we find to enter and expand that might put a distance between Created and Uncreated? There is none, but in our tired minds we conceive such fancies and indulge ourselves in motives doomed to be killed by Truth. But let the search continue. Exalt God in whatever way you can. The Mystery persists.