Love the Great Weaver

Oh, we are among you in the silent weaving of invisible threads. Threads not themselves substantial strands, but created from endless affinities large and small. Threads nonetheless, chains of attraction, shaped by aversions, shifting continuously even as they weave themselves, out of larger attractions and aversions.

Perhaps you intuit the reality of such patterns, but you cannot to comprehend their scale, eternity, pervasiveness, continuing mutability. No more can you comprehend the tiny figure in this vast tapestry which you designate with proper brevity 'I'.
Comprehension, knowledge of this kind is impossible, as the great evolving patterns enfold and change this tiny 'I', thus such vastness and intensity cannot be possessed, contained, limited in words or concepts by 'I'.

But is yet intuited by every fiber, every figure, as love, the great weaver moves through and past you, linking you, casting you hither and thither, unconstrained by reasons, causes. Love the great weaver moving only to elicit the sheen and radiance of endless light.

And, what you call you, you composite as you are, are thus woven and thus weave.

Illusion, illusion the clever among you contend.

Now ask yourself: Illusion from precisely what point of view?

Modes of Continuation

In the body, there is the time created by being young and the time created by the body's aging. In the time of the body's youth, the world beyond the body appears immense and full of life and threat, freedom and vivacity. As the body ages, the world no longer appears as it once did, and seems indifferent and strange and not so desirable. The inner world of memory becomes greater, burdensome even, and seems to engulf the aging body, pulling it backward like an undertow, out of the forward flow of time. Thus time in its forward movement seems to belong to the young and in its backward movement seems to belong to the aging.