My being is engaged in
the discovery of who You are,
dear Father-Mother.
This work of discovery commanded
my attention long before
there was ever a dream of
'I want, need, must have,'
long before desperation lied
about reliable pleasure,
long before I explained to You
my anger, impatience,
hunger.
My work isn't to learn
something I don't know,
so I can be better in this dream of time.
The discovery of the infinitude
You are
again and again,
makes me laugh,
makes me see
the tangible You—
in this clear winter sky,
in this teenager's effort,
in this friend's willing call.
The discovery isn't a mental game
but Your insistence that reality
be understood moment by moment,
as I stumble
over innocence, peace,
the reality of being loved
from the start.
The wonder of this work
quiets the false "I am,"
admits that who You are
is the only I AM
I know.
