One of the Milder Heresies

     One finds oneself in the middle of mysteries, surrounded by clues, just recently, ever presently, just now then, entangled by hungers and passing wonders. What is one to make of it all, when one already makes it all, is it all, and is an ephemeral nothing in the midst of it? One is God.
     One is many gods and Gods. There's one clue. They swim in and out of one's view, as with the whole floating universe of shows within awareness. One doesn't have to believe in any of them, nor in any one of them. There they are. There they go. The reviled ones, the admired ones, the blessed ones, the feared but beloved ones, jealous or winged with awe. The consorts and the cohorts of divinity trouble one like a teacher's many passing schoolchildren, shy or imperious, often bright, always contradictory. All teachers learn there is nothing to teach, only something to learn. But none of the many little ones easily bears remaining peripheral: each seems to burn with mild and often angry desire to be or become the special, cherished, and truly adored one.
     One is incapable of deciding among them. One tries. This is what makes one aware of one's limitations. But there is only the trying. The whole opus of creation rises on a tide that seems beyond one's control and yet never exists except insofar as one notices and then always as one with the creation. There is no work. That's one clue. There's nothing but work, an endless round of regularly scheduled rites and maintenance. That's another one.
     Everything tilts and bends toward one, as if one were the eye of the storm, the neck of the hourglass, the last thought experiment in the museum of light. But one is not any of those things. One is not. One is not what one is. One is.