Walking on a Tightrope

Digital drawing from my sketchbooks:  Adam and Eve wearing tee shirts, because fig leaves were not enough.

You are like walking on a tightrope, very high but without a net.  Why no net?  Because even a fall would be a vital part of what you are.
You are like wearing the clothes of a priest and when you go out in front of people feeling like a wolf in sheep's clothing.  Your presence gives lie to the aggrandizing robes.
You are like walking into a church and seeing that the building is nothing, that only the spirit which dwells there has value, and that the spirit can dwell everywhere, not requiring church or structure.
You are like an onion always presenting one more layer.
The more we look, the more you reveal.
They say that Isis had a thousand veils, but the truth is that we, unable to comprehend Isis, hid her behind a thousand veils.
She is not elusive.
You are not elusive.
It is not you who hide, it is we who hide you.
We tend to walk in a beautifully illuminated world, always asking:
where is illumination?
Surrounded by brilliance, we see the shadow first.
Sophia pristine.
There is the source, then there are the emanations from the source.
If you think of the world as a guitar, then we are the player.
The frets are the rules by which we live.
Above those rules are the strings, and each fret offers each string a point to divide and vibrate upon.
In that division, a myriad of possible sounds can emerge, depending on how we touch the string with our fingers.
Transformation occurs when the vibration is transmitted into the air.  And such vibrations may fade from our hearing, but they continue on infinitely in the world.  That is the spirit.
And the world within which the spirit moves - is that you?
Have I looked correctly?  Or is there more?
Of course, there is more.
Tomorrow the guitar metaphor won't mean the same thing to me,
not because the guitar has changed, but because my viewpoint  has changed. Another veil is lifted.
You made us in a way which allows us to see the world reborn from instant to instant, but we persist in maintaining that it is a solid, predictable and controllable thing.
Were we to trust intuition and inspiration remaining open to them we could grow into the world like a note played on a guitar.  Like the note, we go on forever. echoing you.
You are like a grape with the juice inside. Outside the air is hot and dry.  Bite into the grape and the cool sweet and liquid center allows us to be cooled, sweetened and refreshed in the hot dry world.
If I am a pot, you are clay, kiln, wheel, hands, glaze and purpose.
Why, when agony in process seems to last and last, do we remember it so dimly?  Why does its recollection diminish with each passing day?
Why, when pleasure is often so fleeting and furiously fast, do we remember it so fondly and in brilliance?
In the end, will we only remember the brilliance, or will the dark shadows offer their own notes of clarity to the picture?