THE MYSTIC STORY – GETTING THINGS STARTED
Before the beginning, there was Stillness. Silence. No time, no space, no thing. Nothing of the things that we comprehend in our minds. There was no mind, no body, no sky, no sun, no stars, no galaxies. No physical universe at all. No astral or causal heavens, or anything of that sort either. No proprietary Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or Hindu heavens. Absolutely nothing. Any where. Any place. Any time. Except Stillness. And Stillness was Conscious Being. Stillness existed within Itself, for Itself, of Itself. And Stillness was Love.
According to the Muslims, Conscious Being was a Hidden Treasure. How long He (let’s call It that and be done with it – you can’t call Love ‘It’, ‘She’ sounds ingratiatingly PC, and ‘SHe’ is just plain ridiculous!) – how long He had been hidden is a silly question, because there was no time by which to measure, “How long?” And no change in the Stillness, by which to measure time. But – so they say – the Hidden Treasure wanted to be known. Wanted to be loved. Wanted to experience His own love. So He created a creation. But out of what? Out of Himself. So simple!
In the beginning, He projected Himself, He emanated Himself, within Himself. For He was (and is) just One. The first desire of Love to be loved, to know His own love – that desire or will sowed the undifferentiated seed that sprang into two-ness, three-ness, and thence into manyness. He flowed out (or in?) within Himself, for there was (and is) nothing but Him, in all the many nooks and crannies of His created cosmos.
Some say He spoke, and His Voice formed all things. His Word resounded and the resonances made creation. Some say He sang, and within the symphony of His Music all things were formed. Some say He shone forth, and His Light wove the dance of forms. Some say He is pure Energy, and His Energy moved and vibrated, and so everything danced into existence. Some say He is a Father, and His only-begotten Son went forth, and did the work of creation. Some say She (ah well!) is a Mother, and within her cosmic womb all things have grown.
The poets say He is the Root of the Tree of Life growing in the garden of His own pre-eternal love. And its many branches, twigs and leaves are His creation. Or they say He is a Spring, or a River, or a Fountain of Living Water, which – flowing out from His eternal garden – watered the desert of nothingness, which sprang into abundant life.
The philosophers and metaphysicians say that He is the One Essential Being, the Source, the Origin and the primal Cause of all. By projecting His own Being within Himself, He formed, as it were, an Axis of Being, an Ontological Dimension (they like fancy words), within which all forms have their being. Everything is formed out of Being (or Consciousness), for there is nothing else. Oh, and they also say that He is Life, which is the same thing as Being or Consciousness; and so all the little beings live, and that’s what life is. Or they say that the Silence was a Void, and from the Void all things have come.
Others have said that He is a Puppeteer. He takes all the puppets from His bag, He pulls the strings, and the puppets start dancing. Everything, they say, is just His play, His dance. “All the world’s a stage.” And when He’s finished, He puts all the puppets back in His bag, and goes away. But how can there be a question of starting, finishing, and going away for the One who created time? Only puppets pose such questions.
So that was, so they all say, how He did it. And who – you may ask – are they ? Well, there’s the ancient Greeks, they said that. So, too, did the yogis and writers of the Hindu sacred books. And the Buddhists, too. Then, the Jews and the rabbis of the Kabbalah, they said much the same, using different imagery. And the Christians and gnostics, too (“In the beginning was the Word, …”) voiced the same opinion. And, of course, the Sufis. And a host of native peoples who never felt the need to crystallize their beliefs in writing, because it was clear to them that everything is a part of the Great Spirit, who lives and breathes in all things.
And how does the Hidden Treasure love Himself in all of this? Because love attracts, and all the dancing puppets are forever attracted to their Creator. They are droplets of love, loving the Ocean of Love in which they dwell. And more than that. His dance only exists by virtue of the little beings that populate the dance floor, the little versions of Himself that we call souls. And that means us. All of us. Human beings, animal beings, bird beings, reptile, fish and amphibian beings, insect and creepy-crawly beings. Even bacterial beings, I suppose, for how else do you account for them? And probably vast numbers of extra-terrestrial (and very strange-looking) beings, too. And of course the heavenly hosts of angels, archangels, cherubim, seraphim, houris, devas, devatas, ghosts and what not, and many many more of that ilk.
And His love, of course, is the origin of beauty, too. When the little beings look at something, and think, in their own way, “Wow!”, and love it.
And all the forms that danced out into created existence when He spoke the Word, “Be!”, will dance back again, one by one, when He gives the call, “Return!” And I guess that those who heed the call are the ones we say are mystics, seekers, and wayfarers on the Path. And naturally, they can be in any time, place, religion, culture, workplace, bus stop, garden, or anywhere else you care to mention.
And there’s another thing. He didn’t just make everything, and then go off on holiday (where to?). His kind of love, one must presume, makes no sense unless it engages and interacts, and that’s the kind of creation He wants. Engaging and interactive.
So His Word, or whatever you care to call it, is forever creating and sustaining everything in existence. He is in the creation, and the creation is in Him. If He withdrew His Word, everything would vanish, like switching off a light. Through His Word, He is present in every little (and bigger) particle of His creation. We little beings live and exist like fish within the Ocean of His Being.
And if all the little fishes want to worry themselves silly, discussing whether or not such a thing as water really exists, well I guess that’s just their – that is to say, our – problem, isn’t it?
