It has always fascinated me, or has fascinated me
for as long as I have been conscious. I never knew its name, and still do not. Divine names speak to certain aspects of It, but It is more than God or gods; It
includes trees, sky, wind, water, many kinds of animal-beings. It lives, moves,
and is always here. It is All, and, if it wear possible to say, still
more.
To be conscious and being fascinated by It are
nearly synonymous. Ever present, all-encompassing, yet also felt or known to be
beyond anything and all that one can experience in any way. It is more than the
sum of all the parts. It seems to be alive, at least speaking analogously, and
may give life to each and to all.
Sometimes I name it “You,” and do so when I focus on
the divinity at work in it. In speaking of It and to It, I am ever aware that
It far transcends my understanding, or any name, or any conception. It is, and
everything is within It.
To be conscious is virtually synonymous with being conscious of It. One can know or feel nothing in which It is not present. When I first awake in the morning, and open my eyes, I know that I am beholding It in everything I see. It simply is present in everything, and in the consciousness of everything. There is nothing that exists or is that is not sufficed with It.
Some seeings more fully stir the awareness of It. When I behold the starry sky on a winter night, so light and wondrous, I am
intensely aware of seeing within It, of gazing with wonder and joy at Its cosmic
presence. Seeing the stars reminds me afresh of Its sheer vastness in time and
space, and this is achieved by becoming conscious not only of beauty and
magnitude, but simultaneously, of my own ignorance of It, and before It. And I,
too, am a part of It, just as the stars and ice-cold air, and Moses, walking
along beside me in the dark illuminated by stars.
In gazing, praying in words to God or to a god or
saint is a movement downward, a kind of unnecessary addition or distraction,
although words may spontaneously erupt from my mouth. That cannot be helped. "Wow!” But consciously to compose words and to speak them seems less
appreciative, less receptive, less alive than simply looking, gazing, delighting
in the wonder of Its cosmic display. To gaze at It is the heart of
prayer.
“I do not know its name.” Indeed, and the “Tao that
can be expressed is not the Tao,” and the It that is named is less than It.
And yet, if It were not here, now, I would not be writing, nor thinking about
It, my heart would not be beating, breath not moving in and out.
