Through the mystery of inner work, darkness is turned into light. The chaos and confusion of our unconscious gradually and miraculously reveal a higher center of consciousness which is none other than our innermost essence, "the face we had before we were born". This is the Self, the Divine Child, which was always present within us, but hidden beneath layers of ego and conditioning.
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor's
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it's the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world's baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I'll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I'll take it all.