“What if it’s just for me?”

“What if it’s just for me?”

What if it’s just for me? What if higher consciousness is just for me and not a gift to the world? (Instead of me out there peddling it like a snake-oil salesman.) Just for me!

Have I even thought about receiving it?

What if the gift of Presence is just for me and all the anxiety about how to get it, or manifesto it, is just so much dandelion fluff drifting in the wind?

What if bad poetry is really OK?

I keep on repeating it because I do: What if it’s just for me?

What if no one can see the flower that grows on the lonely height of the mountain?

What if I can see the lonely face of the other, the never-seen-before face, and see it just for me, without trying to be helpful again?

Because what if it’s just for him too!

It’s the me that sees me I’d love you to see. And I love to see in you the you that sees you. All the finery is just foreplay before we look at each other and see the real thing. The cover-ups don’t hide who we are and sooner or later we’re unmasked by our trembling and suddenly humble love, try as we do to not let it happen.