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This A Perfect Moment

THIS IS A PERFECT MOMENT
by Rob Brezsny


This is a perfect moment.
It's a perfect moment for many reasons,
but especially because you and I are waking up
from our sleepwalking, thumb-sucking, dumb-clucking collusion
with the masters of illusion and destruction.

Thanks to them,
from whom the painful blessings flow,
we are waking up.

Their wars and tortures,
their crimes against nature,
extinctions of species
and brand new diseases.

Their spying and lying
in the name of the father,
sterilizing seeds and
trademarking water.

Molestations of God,
celebrations of shame,
stealing our dreams and
changing our names.

Their cunning commercials
and blood-sucking hustles,
their endless rehearsals
for the end of the world.

Thanks to them,
from whom the awful teachings flow,
we are waking up.

*

Their painful blessings are cracking open
more and more gashes
in the shrunken and crippled mass hallucination
that is mistakenly called "reality."
And through the fractures,
ripe eternity is flooding in;
news of the soul's true home is pouring in;
our allies from the other side of the veil
are swarming in,
inspiring us to become smarter and wilder
and kinder and trickier.

We are waking up.

As heaven and earth come together,
as the dreamtime and daytime merge,
we register the shockingly exhilarating fact
that we are in charge
of creating a brand new world.
Not in some distant time or faraway place,
but right here and right now.

*

As we stand on this brink,
as we dance on this verge,
we can't let the ruling fools of the dying world
sustain their curses.
We have to rise up
and fight their insane logic;
defy, resist, and prevent their tragic magic;
erupt with our sacred rage and supercharge it.

But overthrowing the living dead is not enough.
Protesting the well-dressed monsters is not enough.
We can't afford to be consumed with our anger;
we can't be obsessed and possessed by their danger.
Our mysterious bodies crave delight and fertility.
Our boisterous imaginations demand fresh tastes of infinity.

In the new world we're gestating,
we need to be suffused
with lusty compassion and ecstatic duty,
ingenious love and insurrectionary beauty.
We've got to be teeming with radical curiosity and reverent pranks,
voracious listening and ferocious thanks.

*

So I'm curious, my fellow creators.
Since you and I are in charge of making a new world
-- not just breaking down the old world --
where do we begin?
What stories do we want at the heart of our experiments?
What questions will be our oracles?

Here's what I say:
In the New World we're creating,
We will ridicule the cult of doom and gloom.
We will embrace the cause of zoom and boom.
We will laugh at the stupidity of evil and hate;
we'll summon the brilliance to praise and create.

No matter how upside-down it all may appear,
we will have no fear
because we know this big secret:
Pronoia is real.
All of creation is conspiring to shower us with blessings.
Life is crazily in love with us --
brazenly and innocently in love with us.

The universe always gives us
exactly what we need,
exactly when we need it.

*

The winds and the tides are on our side,
forever and ever, amen.
The fire and the rain are scheming to steal our impossible pain.
The sun and the moon and the stars
remember our real names,
and our ancestors pray for us while we're dreaming.

We have guardian angels and thousands of teachers,
provocateurs with designs to unleash us,
helpers and saviors we can't even imagine,
brothers and sisters who want us to blossom.

Thanks to them,
from whom the blissful blessings flow,
we are waking up.

The roads they pave us,
the places they save us,
the tomatoes they grow us,
the rivers they flow us.

Their mysterious stories,
and morning glories,
their loaves and fishes,
granting our wishes.

The songs they sing us,
the gifts they bring us,
the secrets they show us,
above and below us.

Thanks to them,
from whom the blissful blessings flow,
we are waking up.


*

Postscript:

I'm allergic to dogma.
I thrive on the riddles.
Any idea I believe, I reserve the right to disbelieve as well.
But more than any other vision I've ever tested,
pronoia describes the way the world actually is.
It's wetter than water,
stronger than death,
and truer than the news.
It smells like cedar smoke in the autumn rain,
and if you close your eyes right now,
you can feel it shimmering
like the aurora borealis
in your organs and muscles.
Its song is your blood's song.

Some people argue that life is strife
and suffering is normal.
Others swear we're born sinful
and only heaven can provide us with the peace
that passes understanding.
But pronoia says that being alive
on the rough green and brown earth
is the highest honor and privilege.
It's an invitation to work wonders
and perform miracles
that aren't possible in any nirvana, promised land, or afterlife.

I'm not exaggerating or indulging in poetic metaphor
when I tell you that we are already living in paradise.
Visualize it if you dare.
The sweet stuff that quenches all of our longing
is not far away in some other time and place.
It's right here and right now.
Poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning knew the truth:
"Earth's crammed with heaven."

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